


The Edge of Extinction

by DragonTail



Series: Transformers: Micromasters [1]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 15:04:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1432840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonTail/pseuds/DragonTail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amid dwindling resources and the passing of titans, a new breed of Transformers struggles to survive. But how will the Autobot Micromasters triumph over their Decepticon foes when they can't even stop fighting amongst themselves? When all hope is gone, one shall rise - but not the one any sane mech would expect, nor welcome!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There was once a legend about the walls of Iacon. It claimed the high barricades surrounding the golden city were forged from the super-dense heart of a star. It held that, for nine million years, the walls were unbreakable and impenetrable; that they turned away all attempts at assault. And it said that, on the one and only day the walls _did_ fall, the Autobots won the Great War against the Decepticons.

As he watched the gilded barriers crumble before him, Star Convoy believed the end of the battle, this day, would be not legendary but _infamous_.

Roaring and bellowing, the beast called Metrotitan waded through the ruins. Blood-red fists hammered mercilessly at buildings. Impossibly large silver legs brushed freeways aside; blocky feet dug trenches through the civilian zone. The creature’s cries echoed through the streets.

It was, Star Convoy knew, a desperation move. Somehow, the Decepticons had scrounged up enough Energon to fuel their walking doomsday weapon and send him into the field. That Metrotitan had not fired a single one of his numerous artillery batteries spoke volumes; the juggernaut had power enough to move, and no more. His opponent’s lack of weaponry was of little comfort to Star Convoy.

“When the bad guy’s as tall as the Tower of Pion,” he muttered, clenching his fists tightly, “it really doesn’t matter if he’s carrying a gun.”

Star Convoy had no rifle, either. He was among the larger members of the Autobots; a mighty mechanical being clad in crimson, silver and cobalt armour. His reinforced chest-plate bore the finest blue crystal and the golden crest from which he took his name. All that power, all that structure, was of little use right now... Like the Decepticons, his army lacked the fuel necessary to power its ordnance.

It was, he reflected, a bitterly _proper_ situation, given the history of his world.

The Great War had begun, 18 million years earlier, as a dispute over Energon. It raged for nine million years – across Cybertron, Earth and the greater universe – before ending in Autobot victory. Peace had reigned, factionalism was forgotten and plenty was enjoyed. Cybertron and its colonies became involved in galactic affairs; its people soon famous for their strength, wisdom and willingness to help others. “Autobot” ceased to be a political designation and became an occupation; a term for those Transformers working for the protection and betterment of the universe.

Nine million years of harmony and accord – as many centuries of peace as there had been war – ended when the Energon ran out.

The stockpiles dwindled and chaos reigned. Rather than working together to find a solution, the Transformers began to hiss at one another. Accusations were hurled both at those who went off-world and those who came from distant planets. Xenophobia swept the metal world. Alliances were broken and lines of communication were severed. Autobots were called back from their galactic posts to help quell insurrection and put down attempted coups. Then, on the darkest of all days, the hated Decepticon insignia was unfurled over a battlefield… and war began again.

Star Convoy had done his best to stop the fighting, to encourage discourse and resolution. His best, unfortunately, had been sorely lacking. All the mistakes he’d made… all the wrong paths he’d taken… had left his beloved city at the mercy of a starving, half-crazed behemoth.

_But not_ , he vowed silently, _for much longer_.

“Metrotitan,” he boomed, amplifying his voice as much as his synthesiser would allow. “You’re not welcome here, Decepticon! If you turn around, _now_ , and head back to Kaon, I’ll spare your miserable Spark. But if you ignore my warnings, I won’t be held responsible for what comes next!”

“You’re _warning_ me?” the giant asked, incredulous. “That’s rich, Autobot germ. Our spies know everything about your predicament. Grandus went offline from Energon starvation cycles ago. Battle Gaea and Sky Garry didn't leave enough of each other to sweep up.” He laughed. “As for Hot Rodimus, well, I’m still cleaning him out from _between my treads_!”

Star Convoy bristled.

“You’ll forgive me,” Metrotitan continued, “if I ignore your feeble warning and get back to the task at hand. Once Iacon is levelled and the Autobots annihilated, the Decepticons will drain whatever Energon we find and, finally, rule Cybertron!”

The Autobot sighed heavily. “Then you leave me no choice.”

Slowly, Star Convoy raised his arms. He turned his fists over, palms upward, and uncurled his powerful fingers, setting _them_ free.

Unconcerned, Metrotitan moved deeper into the city. He punched a hole in the roof of the stellar galleries and took a chunk out of the Decagon with a savage kick. Still grunting and guffawing, the Decepticon turned his attention to the Oracle Tanks… and paused.

He slapped at his left shin.

Then his right.

He twisted, face wrinkled by discomfort, and tried to grab at both of his knees.

Metrotitan began to convulse, all over, and scrabbled madly at his armour. Star Convoy watched, impassive. The Decepticon could do whatever he liked, scratch as compulsively as he wanted. Everything he tried would fail, because no force in the universe would stop the Autobot Micromasters protecting their home.

\-----

“Another day out with the team – just me, mayhem and chaos,” Big Shot whooped. “I love my job!”

The Battle Patrol’s commander accelerated, using his specially-designed wheels to drive vertically up Metrotitan’s armour. As he hurtled skyward, Big Shot spun his turret and lobbed acid-filled shells in all directions.

_That’s one of the best things about being a Micro_ , he thought to himself. _We might only be able to use our projectile weaponry in vehicle mode, but we’re so small and use so little Energon, we still get to have weapons! Thank the Matrix for that... life without a cannon wouldn't be worth living_.

His fellow Battlers covered his rear expertly, just like he’d taught them. Sidetrack – show off that she was – was reversing up the ‘con, marking her trail with blistering firepower. Flack, always the thinker, was eyeing more strategic targets… servos, joints, fuel lines… before strafing them out of existence.

“Try bendin’ over now, loser,” Flak drawled in his thick Tyrestian accent.

“Try anything,” Sidetrack fumed, her temper flaring, “and we’ll eviscerate you!”

Big Shot smiled proudly. “Atta girl,” he encouraged his life partner. “Talking the talk _and_ walking the walk.”

He cast his scanners around and found no trace of Sunrunner. _Good_ , he grumbled. _The last thing we need is that maverick_.

“Big Shot,” growled a voice in his cockpit. The Micromaster paid it no heed, but the caller would not be ignored. “Follow the plan,” it continued. “Keep your team in tight formation and stop the indiscriminate barrages! You want to get us all killed?”

“Cram it in your tailpipe then smoke it, Road Handler,” he barked back. “I don’t give a _damn_ about you four-wheeled retreads, so it’s on you to stay out of my sights and not the other way ‘round!”

He terminated the inter-Autobot radio call and went back to work. The Battle Patrol were more than two-thirds of the way up Metrotitan, now, and closing in on his mid-section. That’s where they could do some real damage. If he, his girl and Flak could power through the denser plating on the giant’s central hip joint, the Air Patrol and the Astro Squad could wreak some real havoc.

And, if Big Shot was lucky, Road Handler and his goons would be caught in the crossfire and written off as collateral damage.

“Ah see th' hip joint, comin’ up,” Flak reported.

“Sidetrack, you’re on flea duty,” Big Shot ordered. “If Metrotitan ties to scratch us, blow his frelling fingers off. Flak, take out the outer epidermal layers.” He narrowed the width of his tank barrel and charged up his laser core. “I’ll take it from there.”

The trio sailed over the top of Metrotitan’s leg and transformed to robot mode. Flak landed first and immediately scurried over to the target. He fixed his ruby crystal visor on the Decepticon’s plating, doing quick mental calculations in order to deliver an effective payload.

Sidetrack danced lightly across the undulating surface toward Big Shot. She grabbed her life-mate by the shoulders and planted a deep, passionate kiss on his blue face plate. “Just in case,” she winked.

“You’re crazy,” Big Shot admonished, pushing her away. He smiled. “Don’t change.”

“Never.”

Sidetrack curled in on herself again and pointed her twin cannons toward the sky. Metrotitan’s hand sailed past and, even though it was hundreds of metres from them, she fired a couple of rounds into the massive red thumb. _Femme after my own pump_ , Big Shot thought happily.

“Ah cain't see th' others,” Flak commented.

As if in reply, four colourful streaks arced past them. They coalesced, suddenly, into a group of lithe figures. Road Handler had extended his knuckle-spines and was gently swinging his left hand from a chain, like a spiked wrecking ball. Free Wheeler was tense, his optics alive with battle fervour; Swindler looked bored, obviously failing to see any opportunity in their mission.

Tailspin, the last member of the Racer Patrol, nodded at his rivals and snatched handfuls of throwing stars from his waist-mounted dispenser. Leaping, he filled the area next to Flak with red shuriken, then blew the Battlers off with a mock salute.

“You’re welcome,” he deadpanned. “Oh, and: Fire in the hole.”

The Zen Master of deception vanished; his team followed suit, snide laughter trailing after them. Big Shot and Flak exchanged shocked looks and hit the deck. The explosion almost knocked all three of them off Metrotitan; Sidetrack had to transform once more and grab hold of a loose piece of panelling. Much as Big Shot hated to admit it, the racer had indeed done their work for them; the shuriken had burned through Metrotitan’s weakened defences and exposed his vulnerable interior.

“Spawn of a glitch,” Sidetrack sneered.

“He’ll get his,” Big Shot murmured dangerously. “For now, let’s give Metrotitan a hiding he won’t soon forget.”

\-----

“Get away, Blaze,” said the voices. “Pull up, Blaze. You’re not supposed to be there, Blaze. You’re compromising the mission, Blaze. Listen to _us_ , Blaze.”

Blaze didn’t listen to the voices in his head. Never had, never would. There were only two sounds to which he ever paid heed: the thrumming of his fuel pump and the shrieking in his Spark.

Lots of mechs feared those kinds of noises. They said they were harbingers of the path to the Pit, proof the taint of Unicron within you was too strong. But Blaze didn’t worry about that, either. He’d long ago given his Spark over to the Chaos Bringer. It was what made him such a fantastic Autobot.

Powering up, rotors spinning madly, the black-and-tan helicopter looped under Metrotitan’s flailing attack. The giant couldn’t focus on Blaze – couldn’t see any of the Micromasters – because his sensor net wasn’t delicate enough. He left the other members of the Air Patrol in his wake. Eagle-Eye, Treadbolt and Sky High could provide a distraction for him as well as for the Battlers and Racers. His work was just as important.

Blaze drew in as close as he could, landing neatly on Metrotitan’s ebony neck. As he transformed, his still-spinning rotors leaped up into the air – he snatched them down with one hand. Humming gently to himself, Blaze walked casually across the giant’s surface, nestling himself in under the immense silver jaw.

Then, with a pleasant whistle, he drove one of his four his diamond-hard, serrated blades into his enemy’s throat.

Gratifyingly, the beast stopped roaring. Blaze took that as his cue to continue his work. In went the second blade, meaning the first had to shift to one side. It did so, carving out a good portion of the Decepticon’s synthesiser. The third blade moved the other two along, and gouts of oil and Energon marked their passage. By the time the fourth and final blade was inserted, Metrotitan was gagging and puking up thick, frothy oil. The slick flowed over Blaze and made him smile.

It was such a pleasure, to have found one’s calling in life.

\-----

Phaser squinted. She wished she could see properly. More accurately, she wished she was in the air, observing this battle from the proper vantage point. It felt odd for a stellar cartographer and scientist to be on the ground, but duty was duty. To her team fell the role of delivering the decisive blow and – for the sake of Iacon – the Astro Squad was not about to shirk its responsibilities.

“You’re worrying too much again,” Blast Master said. His thick, powerful hand settled comfortingly on her shoulder. “We knocked the asteroid off course last year, and our makeshift force field kept the solar winds from immolating everyone the year before that. There’s more chance of the universe spontaneously contracting than there is of us missing our target, Phaser.”

She turned to him and tried to smile; it came out as more of a grimace. “Worrying is what I do, Blast Master,” she reminded her gestalt partner. “All the great minds worry, and I’m perhaps the greatest mind on Cybertron. Should I stop worrying, I shan’t have anything to do.”

A long, blue vehicle – topped with a satellite dish and supported by moon tyres – chuckled. “We simply couldn’t have _that_ ,” quipped the front half of the truck. “Perish forbid!”

“Totally unacceptable,” agreed the rear section of the vehicle. “Should Phaser cease fretting, the knock-on effects would be catastrophic! Why, for one thing, I’ll lose my best client. And what’s a counsellor without a permanent neurotic to look after?”

Phaser shot Barrage and Heave a withering look. “You two just can’t stop listening in on other mechs’ conversations, can you?” She sighed. “Maybe you could swing that dish of yours around the _other_ way and keep an audio sensor out for Big Shot’s signal, please?”

Her team mates groused good-naturedly, taking mock offence. “You wound us, madam,” they wailed plaintively.

Phaser found her spirits buoyed. She was ever so lucky to be leader of the Astro Squad. Alone among the Micromaster teams, she and her friends each transformed into half of a deep-space vehicle. They were incapable of acting alone, and had to work together at all times. So strong were the bonds of friendship and loyalty, the infighting of the other teams seemed alien to them.

She ran over to Moonrock and Missile Master. They, too, were in their combined mode – a launch truck. The rear half of the vehicle was twitching slightly; Missile Master was characteristically eager to fire off the team’s latest invention. This projectile was fairly standard; a high-explosive payload with that special Astro Squad tip. The pointed surface was coated with cyclonic steel, as were each of its creators, and the metal that kept the six Autobots safe from even the fiercest photon blasts would ensure the missile buried itself deep inside Metrotitan before detonation.

“May I?” Missile Master asked. “Oh please, may I?”

Moonrock tutted. The front half of the launcher was a more simple-minded mech; the least intelligent member of the team. That made him a genius compared to most Autobots, of course. Still, he did not share his partner's enthusiasm for explosions.

“I have confirmation,” Heave called. “Big Shot sounded decidedly annoyed, though.”

_Did the Racers foul their plans?_ Phaser wondered. _Perhaps. Road Handler swears his team ignores the Battlers’ competitive streak but, in truth, he is as bad. That said, there is the chance he does not care – the Racers always claim the glory, no matter the efforts of their heavily-armed rivals_.

“That's not our concern,” she said primly. “Whomever inflicted the blow, the fact remains the blow has been struck. Now comes our moment to attack. Missile Master, you may fire when ready.”

“Finally,” came the reply, “sweet relief!”

There was no countdown; the squad had agreed they all found such a procedure beneath beings of their intelligence. With a _whoomp_ and the shudder of a shockwave, the missile leaped into Cybertron's night sky. Phaser watched it rise, marvelled at the perfect porabola it cleaved... then froze.

“He'll see it,” she gasped. “Dash it all, he'll see it!”

Blast Master was, again, at her side. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Curse me for a fool,” the femme spat. “Metrotitan cannot lock on to individual Micromasters because we are small, and use little Energon. But the missile... oh, the missile. It uses as tiny a portion of fuel as do we, but it's output is gaseous and therefore easily detectable!”

Barrage and the others de-coupled and transformed, gathering around their leader. As one, the squad watched the missile zero in on Metrotitan, make precise adjustments to its course, rocket toward the centre of the beast's torso... and get snatched out of the air by one of his massive hands.

Metrotitan, momentarily distracted from his itchy torment, regarded the weapon curiously. Its engine still running, the projectile vibrated between his thumb and forefinger and vented more exhaust smoke. The giant tried to laugh but, for some reason – damage to his synthesiser, perhaps – the noise came out corrupted, filled with static, and was somehow all the more hateful for it.

“Drat,” Phaser muttered.

\-----

_Trumpets_ , he thought. _That's the ticket. A pre-recorded fanfare I can broadcast through my external speakers at the very last second. Not too early – that would give the target time to react – but right before I drill him right between the eyes! Maybe if I talk nicely to Heave, he'll whip something up for me. What good is being the Autobot communicator if you can't play music every now and again?_

Sitting atop the Tower of Pion, he watched the Astro Squad's missile zoom into Metrotitan's grasp. No one had bothered to ask _his_ opinion about this whole scheme. He'd faced the lunk before; he knew conventional weaponry didn't cut the mustard against the biggest Decepticon of all time. So he'd just kept his mouth shut as Star Convoy explained the plan, knowing only too well its single greatest flaw.

It didn't have enough Sunrunner in it.

“Boys,” he said, opening an inter-Autobot radio channel, “I want to appeal to your sense of community spirit.”

The line crackled. “Not interested,” rasped a deep, threatening voice.

“Such a gruesome, yet dulcet, tone,” Sunrunner continued, deliberately ignoring his audience's apathy. “Treadbolt, have you ever thought of singing? Because I had this great idea for a personal fanfare, but I'd be willing to have a theme song, instead, if you're willing to lay down a track.”

“We're busy,” came the snarling reply.

He smiled beneath his mask-like face plate. If you asked another Autobot, they'd tell you Treadbolt was a cold, creepy creature of the night – not a mech to be messed with. Sunrunner, meanwhile, got his jollies hassling the wing-shaped stealth bomber... and doing so for a good cause made the annoyance all the sweeter.

“You'll be even busier in a minute, when Star Convoy's grand plan fails and Metrotitan swats you Airies out of the sky.”

A pause. “Explain.”

“The galoot can't see us, but he can see the missile. You might have noticed he's snatched it out of the air... probably going to use it to pick his dental plates. I _guess_ I could convince him to loosen his grip, so the thing can continue on its merry way to his hip joint. And I _thought_ we jet-flying 'bots could maybe work together, given the others accuse us of thinking we're superior to them.”

“They think that because of _you_ ,” Treadbolt hissed. “You _are_ convinced you're better than everyone, and that taints what they think of us!”

“Really?” Sunrunner asked, trying to sound innocent. “Well, then, this is the perfect opportunity to change their minds by saving the day!”

Another pause. “Lead us in,” Treadbolt said at last.

“Strike up the band,” Sunrunner whooped. He leaped from the top of the tower and transformed, angling himself toward Metrotitan. External sensors registered Treadbolt, Sky High and Eagle-Eye on his six. _Perfect so far_ , he thought. _If Eagle-Eye can remember to not look down... if Sky High can keep his syk-addled mind on the job... if Treadbolt can hum a merry tune... we might just have a shot at pulling this off_.

He feathered his wing flaps and soared up, then angled his nose down. He waited until he could see the bolts on Metrotitan's oversized knuckles, then powered up his nose cannon. “Light 'em up,” he ordered.

Missiles erupted from the launchers on his back. They were joined, almost immediately, by sidewinders, air-to-air rockets and a single long, nuclear-tipped warhead. The weaponry slammed into the giant's fingers and tore them open, exposing servos and shredding wires. Normally, Metrotitan's armour would be too thick for a Micromaster's arsenal to do damage but, like every big mech on Cybertron, he was fighting the effects of Energon starvation. Instead of being impregnable, his outer plating was brittle and more easily fractured.

Metrotitan let go of the missile. Obligingly, the weapon resumed its interrupted flight and fell back on its pre-programmed course. Blaze joined Sunrunner and the Air Patrol as they scattered, wanting as much distance between them and the Decepticon as possible. He glanced through his rear sensors and saw the Battlers and Racers do the same. The two teams hurtled down Metrotitan's enormous legs, making for the relative safety of the ground. Nearby, the Astros were starting up the force field generator, behind which all the groundhogs would cower.

Sunrunner headed straight for his favourite perch. Once more atop the Tower of Pion he transformed, settled back, and waited for the fireworks.

The missile zeroed in on the hole and thundered into it, detonating right in the midst of Metrotitan's superstructure. Smoke billowed into the air as electrical discharges crackled across his red, blue and white metalwork. The giant blanched, oil flowing freely from his mouth and throat. He toppled forward, recovered, then staggered again. He was grievously harmed, half-dead, but still would not fall.

“Slag me,” Sunrunner breathed. “What does it take to put this guy down?”

\-----

The moment had arrived. Star Convoy had been dreading it but, now, felt an odd calm rush through his systems. He felt like he was about to embrace something that had been pre-ordained; that he was following the path destiny had set in place long ago.

He was at peace, and he was ready.

“Metrotitan must be stopped,” he said aloud, “no matter the cost.”

Star Convoy transformed. His body elongated and his arms contorted; he became a long-nosed tractor-trailer. He fired up his engines, pouring as much of his remaining Energon into them as he could. The Autobot commander had survived, this long, through conservation and sacrifice; neither would help him any longer. The eight wheels of his front section squealed, the twin tank-treads on his rear bit hard into Cybertron's surface.

At top speed, he raced up a half-destroyed freeway and angled himself toward Metrotitan. Star Convoy cleared the end of the ramp and continued, momentum carrying his immense bulk through the air and to a crashing finale against his foe's blocky upper body.

With a roar of surprise and agony, Metrotitan's torso fell backwards. His legs, however, remained exactly where they had been. It had been the plan all along – to break the Decepticon in half and thus end his threat forever. What Star Convoy had neglected to tell his mechs was that the missile alone would not be enough... the Autobot commander's own power would be needed for the final push.

“This,” he gasped, “is a good death.”

He transformed again, caroming nastily off his opponent. Metrotitan's armour had already turned the unmistakable steely-grey of death; that much, at least, had gone right. Star Convoy bounced off, slid along and crashed through what felt like half of Iacon. He tried not to cry out as pieces of armour, as his very limbs, were ripped away. Finally, mercifully, he slammed into a pylon and felt nothing more.

\-----

He watched from a safe distance and a perfect vantage point.

He saw the Autobots gather around their erstwhile leader, heads bowed reverently. Their legendary infighting, their contemptible lack of martial discipline, faded away for a moment. In death, Star Convoy had finally managed to turn a bunch of turbo-revving punks into an army.

Not that it would matter for long. In minutes, everything would change.

He waited, optics fixed on Star Convoy's greying chassis... but _it didn't happen_. There were no flowery speeches, no beams of crystal light. His chest plate did not open to expose the treasure for which he longed. Star Convoy did _not_ have the Creation Matrix within him.

He muttered a string of curses – a foul-mouthed eulogy for yet another plan. He needed time to reassess; to alter his schemes. No event was so bad he couldn't find a way to benefit from it.

Skystalker transformed into a small, orange vehicle and drove away.

\-----

“You seriously think you made one shred of difference out there?”

“One shred? You arrogant snot – you'd have all been slagged if I hadn't rounded up the fliers and kicked serious aft!”

Big Shot leaped for Sunrunner's throat. Free Wheeler and Swindler tried to push themselves between the warring Battlers, but to no avail. Flak and Sidetrack grabbed their long-time rivals and laid into them with fists and feet. The Racers retaliated, and the brawl intensified. The Astros and Aeries looked on.

“Whoa,” Sky High slurred, raising his hands as if calling for calm. “Dudes, mellow out. These negative vibes'll just bring us all down, you feel me?”

“Enough!” yelled a commanding voice.

Like the breaking of a trance, the fighting stopped. Every mech and femme in Autobase turned to look at Phaser.

“I'm well aware stress and anxiety levels within this organisation are at an all-time peak,” she huffed, trying and failing to maintain her composure. “I understand the emotional trauma that comes from trying to reconcile a literal giant-killing victory with self-inflicted regicide. But if every single one of you small-processored buffoons doesn't _shut the bloody hell up_ right now, I'll have Missile Master use you for target practice! Now get the frell out of my laboratory!”

Muttering, still sniping at one another, the mechs... _and_ Sidetrack... filed out. No sooner had the oversized hangar doors closed than tempers flared again. There were even a few small explosions. Phaser ran her hands over her face plate and helm and tried to calm down. It didn't work... but then again, how could it, when she had Star Convoy's corpse laid out in front of her?

“Just because my armour's red and white does not mean I'm a bloody medic,” she groused.

Before the war, Star Convoy might well have survived his injuries. Back then, the Autobots had been equipped with CR chambers – amazing facilities filled with liquid that stimulated a Transformer's natural nanite-controlled healing process. The larger mechs practically lived in them, when the first of the fighting broke out. Sadly, that meant they'd burned out rather fast and, due to the Energon shortage, there was no way to replace them. Without a chamber, and with his own power levels so low, Star Convoy hadn't really had a chance. Phaser suspected the noble mech had known that, and acted anyway.

Micromasters didn't need CR chambers or med bays. Though many times smaller than a standard mech, Micromasters had – through an odd quirk of design – just as many nanites as their larger brethren. While they could be injured just as easily as a “traditional” Transformer, a Micromaster healed its wounds twenty times faster... and that made a force of them almost impossible to stop.

“I'm rather unsure just what it is I'm expected to do with you,” Phaser said, addressing the corpse. “I mean, you're dead and nothing I can do is going to change that. An autopsy would be a waste of time; we were all there, we all saw how you died and what killed you.”

She climbed up onto her fallen leader's chest and looked into his burned-out optics. Her voice softened. “As inconsequential as it might be, given all you did for us and for Cybertron, the only service I can provide is to clean you up for your funeral. Oh, Star Convoy... whatever will we do, now that we've lost you?”

The mighty Autobot's optics flashed with yellow light.

“Aiee!” Phaser shrieked, toppling over backwards.

Beneath her, colour raced through Star Convoy's armour. It was faint and indistinct – not the bright, vivid hues of the living, but not the monochrome of the dead, either – and made the commander look something like a ghost... or the walking dead.

Coughing and spluttering, Star Convy reached out and gripped Phaser's hand between his thumb and forefinger. “The Matrix,” he gasped, each word corrupted by static, “has sent me back. One last task to perform. The Prime must be warned.”

“The Prime?” Phaser asked. “Cybertron hasn't had a Prime for millions of years!”

“He is among us,” Star Convoy rasped. His voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere far, far away. “He walks among us, as did they all, not knowing until his time comes. Primus to Prima, Prime Nova to Sentinel Prime. Then the greatest of all time... Optimus and Rodimus Prime... and, now, him.”

He fixed Phaser with a desperate, manic stare. “Sunrunner,” he breathed. “You must bring Sunrunner to me. My time in the light grows dim, while his is about to begin.”


	2. Chapter 2

Big Shot's brawl with Sunrunner spilled out of the lab, across the commissary and out onto the streets of Iacon. Swindler and Free Wheeler continued to trade fists with Sidetrack and Flak; when Road Handler tried to get in on it, the deranged femme targeted him as well.

Tailspin crossed his legs, deactivated his optics and ignored them all.

He wanted nothing to do with the fight. Rivalries on the battlefield were one thing – they drove you to perform, pushed you to excel – but peace-time punch-ups were pathetic and embarrassing. He tried to slip into a meditative trance, reaching out for the comforting blanket of inner peace... which steadfastly refused to settle over him.

 _It never used to be this way_ , he thought pithily. _When Countdown was in charge, the Micromasters were a cohesive unit. Then he died – killed in the same blast that claimed his deputy, Groundshaker – and we lost the thread that bound us all together. Star Convoy did what he could but a commander is responsible for a whole army, not just one regiment. Without hands-on leadership, we fell apart. And I'm sick of it. I'm a solider, dammit, a warrior – I want a leader I'd be willing to die for!_

Tailspin gave up on meditation. In one swift, fluid motion, he rose and made his way toward the fight. If he couldn't find inner peace, maybe he could leave one of the morons in pieces.

He stopped in place, and nearly toppled over, as Phaser cut him off. The femme scientist paid him no heed as she made for the outer door, toward Big Shot and Sunrunner. You didn't need a cerebro shell to tell she was _very_ unhappy about something. A second later, she walked back in... dragging Sunrunner behind her. The Battler tried to free himself from her grip, but Phaser would not be denied.

Tailspin made a mental note: the Astros were much stronger than anyone gave them credit for. He also resolved to learn more about the strange interaction between Sunrunner and Phaser... very soon.

\-----

“Phaser! What the frell are you... oh.”

Sunrunner was blessed with a large vocabulary and a synthesiser that ran on very little power. Seldom was he speechless. But at that moment, with the half-dead form of Star Convoy laid out before him, the Micromaster was at a total loss for words. He staggered forward, freed at last from Phaser's vice-like grip.

“Sunrunner,” the giant Autobot groaned. His pain must have been unimaginable. “This will not be easy for you to hear... but please, listen _without_ interrupting me. I've no idea how much time I have.”

“Enough to talk but not enough to rebuild the CR chambers, I guess,” he quipped, finding his voice again. He was still grinning when Phaser slapped him upside the head.

Star Convoy moaned – a weary, hopeless sound. “Please,” he said, addressing the skies above, “let it be right about this. I fear time has eroded the Matrix's wisdom in this matter.”

“Whoa, hang on,” Sunrunner said, climbing atop his fallen leader. Phaser followed close behind. “What's this about the Matrix?” he asked.

He felt Star Convoy's gaze on him. The bigger mech looked him up and down, as if he were seeing him for the first time. Through the agony, something twinkled in those pure cyan optics. “Yes,” he wheezed, “I can see it. The set of your helm... the mouth plate... the shape of your chest. The signs have been there, from the very beginning. What a fool I was – a blind, ignorant fool.”

His body wrenched. Sunrunner hit the deck, grabbing hold of Phaser and pulling her along. She shot him an annoyed look, one that became grateful as the convulsion intensified. Finally it subsided and they picked themselves up.

Looking even weaker, Star Convoy spoke again. “For centuries, our people were lead by a Prime,” he began. “For each generation was one forged; a living receptacle of Primus's power. Their noble lineage continued, unbroken, to the time of Rodimus Prime. He led Cybertron into a time of plenty and blazed a path of peace that lasted eons.

“When Rodimus joined the Well of All Sparks, no mech ascended to his place. It was decided, by the wiser among us, that the time of the Prime had come to an end – that the rank served no function on a peaceful Cybertron. And so was the decision made to secure the Creation Matrix deep within the Manganese Mountains, in the chamber of Vector Sigma, above the Well itself.”

Sunrunner arched an optic ridge. “Is this vital exposition, religious hokum or science fiction?”

Surprisingly, Star Convoy chuckled. “Perhaps a little of all,” he acknowledged. “Yet the decree was made, and command of the Autobots became a position appointed by politicians.” He almost sneered the word. “All the while, the rank and file continued to believe their commanding officer carried, within his chassis, the font of Transformer life.”

“Those who followed Rodimus Prime were Matrix Templars; each possessed a limited connection to our sacred life force. They did credit to the Prime legacy. It was an honour and a privilege to serve with them. I questioned the wisdom of my elevation, but that scarcely matters anymore.” He looked meaningfully at the Micromaster and, grimacing in discomfort, took a small key from a pouch on his forearm. It was gold, flat and rounded at one end. “After nine million years, there is once more a Prime among us.”

Sunrunner glanced over his shoulder. “I get that you're dying and your sense of humour could do with a defrag,” he said to Star Convoy, “but are you telling me a _scientist_ is the new Prime?”

The mirth, warmth and understanding drained from the bigger mech's optics. “ _You_ , you sanctimonious little twerp,” he boomed, the power of his voice knocking Sunrunner over. “I've _already_ died, Sunrunner, and the All Spark sent me back to name you, of all mechs, the rightful heir to the Creation Matrix!”

Star Convoy's head lolled back, heralding another convulsion. Sunrunner hung on, speechless for the second time in as many minutes. His processor was reeling. _Me, the Prime? This is insane! The Matrix has been in storage for too long... it's lost touch with reality. Treadbolt nailed it – the others loathe my skid plate. None of them are going to follow me; none of them are going to believe this. Unicron's horns,_ I _don't believe this!_

The dying Autobot looked at him again. “Sunrunner... this is an indescribable honour,” he rasped, pressing the key into the Micro's hands. “You may not deserve it, but you _must_ accept it. The Matrix is the burden hardest to bear, and your toil is essential to the future of our race.”

He winced in pain; his body was turning gray once more. “Legend says... Cybertron was revitalised... once before,” he grunted. “The Prime... saved everyone... through his wisdom. You must... bring energy back to... our world... if we are to survive.” He shook and shuddered, reaching out to grip Sunrunner between his fingers. “Go to... the Manganese Mountains... claim the Matrix... save the Autobots...”

Star Convoy's body froze in place, returned to inert steel. Phaser pushed Sunrunner aside; he watched, detached from the moment, as the femme tried to rouse their leader. She was much too late – he was no medic, but even Sunrunner knew the big mech's Spark was gone. He climbed slowly off the corpse and sat down on the cold, metallic floor. He stared at the key.

Phaser stood over him. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“I'm sorry, I didn't make myself clear. You've just been named leader of the Autobots and messiah for an entire race and so, on behalf of the race whose fate is now in your egocentric, narcissistic hands, fly over and grab the bloody Matrix and then _fix everything_!”

Sunrunner looked gloomily at her. “You Astros are supposed to be the smart ones. Want to rewind what you just said to me, then analyse it with just a pinch of your considerable brain power?”

She paused, her head cocked to one side. “Oh,” she said at last. “Drat.”

“Yeah,” Sunrunner agreed. “Drat.”

Phaser slid down onto the floor next to him and put her head in her hands.

\-----

Traditionally, the bodies of the fallen were loaded onto funeral barges and blasted into space. But this was the time of the Second Great War; there wasn't enough Energon to fuel a laser pistol, let alone a rocket sled. And so the Autobots had fallen back on a ceremony they'd picked up from one of the numerous colony worlds, and begun burying their dead.

It still required a tonne of Energon, but you wouldn't hear any of the Micromasters complaining. No one under Star Convoy's command had ever held him in anything less than the highest esteem. The teams worked well together, oddly enough, joined in purpose by an observation Sky High had made.

“Dudes,” he'd slurred, cycles earlier. “Once the big bot's in the ground, we're out of big bots. The whole Autobot army's down to Micros now. Trippy.”

An ancient, off-world text, stored in the Underbase, held that the 'meek shall inherit the earth'. The phrase had run, repeatedly, through Phaser's mind as she watched Star Convoy's funeral.

 _Meek_. The Micromaster program had been initiated, in peace time, to address the Energon famine. It was slated to be the first phase of longer process, including de-criminalisation of the Headmaster technology. The smaller robot, it was envisaged, would act as the pilot of a vehicle that could transform into a headless, standard mech. The Micromaster would transform into the cranium, giving Cybertronians the best of both worlds: muscle when required, Energon efficiency at all times.

It had not worked out that way. The Micromasters had barely rolled off the assembly line when the war began. An entire sub-line of Transformers designed as a peaceful solution to the problem instead became each side’s primary soldiers. Dutifully, they began scanning vehicular alt modes, donning faction badges and killing each other. _So much for the future of the race_.

Now, it had happened. With the deaths of Star Convoy and Metrotitan – whose carcass was simply too big to move or demolish – the meek were the only living beings left on Cybertron. It was a thought that caused Phaser to despair. The Energon supply was dangerously low, enough to fuel the Micromasters for another stellar cycle – perhaps two, if properly rationed. When she looked to the future, all she could see was a long, bitter war of attrition that no one would win nor survive. The Transformers were on the edge of extinction.

The funeral had come and gone. She was alone, now, atop the Stellar Galleries. Phaser stared out into the inky blackness of space and wished she could be anywhere other than Cybertron.

 _Sunrunner was right_ , she thought, dejectedly. _It doesn't matter if he really is the Prime – no one is going to follow him. No one will care. We will be lucky to sort ourselves out... to agree on a mech to follow for just one cycle... before the Decepticons wade in and slaughter us. A Micro is already in charge over there – that leering twat, Skystalker – so they are ahead of the game. We're fracked._

“I've figured it out,” someone whispered into her right audio sensor.

She jumped. Sunrunner chuckled, motioning for her to calm down. “The Manganese Mountains aren't that far away,” he continued. “A small team, protected by yours truly and using this," he held up the key, "could make it there without rousing too much Decepticon attention. We could be in and back before the 'cons know we're there – and be a large enough force to deal with problems if they did arise. Just as importantly, we could zap there and back before our fellow 'bots realise we've gone and opt for pre-emptive regicide.”

Phaser turned to him. “You've actually come up with a half-decent plan,” she said admiringly. “Which, of course, means the world is well and truly coming to an end.”

“Hah hah,” he deadpanned sarcastically. “And thank you,” he preened, ever the show-off. “I’m convinced the only way the boys will go for this – the idea of me being in charge – is if I’m holding the Matrix aloft as I give the first set of orders. Heck, _I_ wouldn’t follow me into battle if I hadn’t been told to by our erstwhile leader.

Phaser snorted. “I thought you did not believe in Star Convoy's vision.”

Sunrunner tucked the key away and shrugged. “To be honest, I'm 99.9 per cent certain it was the feverish, twisted imaginings of a dying solder,” he said. “But then there's that 0.1 per cent of me – the bit you call narcissistic – that says 'why settle for being the terror of the skies when you can get saluted everywhere you go?'.”

“You are full of slag,” Phaser scowled, turning her back to him. “There is _much_ more than 0.1 per cent of you that believes you are the 'terror of the skies'.”

He didn't reply. When she looked over her shoulder, she could tell he was grinning infuriatingly beneath his faceplate.

“What?”

“You don't realise it, but you just said 'yes' to my plan. And to coming along.”

“Oh really? How did you come to that conclusion?”

“ _You_ believe in this Prime stuff more than I do,” Sunrunner explained, ticking off fingers, “ _you_ are more fussed about Star Convoy's dying request than I am, and _you_ want to be there when-slash-if I find the Creation Matrix,” his voice grew cold, “because _you_ hope the shiny bauble thing rejects me and picks someone _you_ feel to be a more suitable leader.”

Phaser blinked. “How does such an insufferable bore possess such insight into the thinking of others?”

“Because 'insufferable bore',” Sunrunner said, linking his arm with one of hers, “is one of a number of personas I wear to obscure the real me, and to prevent others from taking advantage of my shy, retiring, wallflower-like true self.”

For a moment, Phaser wondered what it would be like to have that kind of self-confidence. It wasn't that Sunrunner was a maverick who thought he was good; he was a maverick who _knew_ he was good – and had several hundred battles' worth of proof. Phaser knew she was good, too – one of the best minds in Cybertron's long history – but her belief in teamwork left no room for such flights of ego. Phaser wished she could live inside Sunrunner's head, just for a few breems.

She thought of Star Convoy; of the reactive, defensive campaign he'd had them fighting. She recalled his last words: _I questioned the wisdom of my elevation, but that scarcely matters anymore_. Had the Matrix selected Sunrunner as a way of... compensating? Of making up for the “damage” inflicted by Star Convoy's style of leadership? Had it been forced, by circumstances up till now, to make an unlikely and extreme choice for the sake of the Sparks it had birthed?

“I'll join you,” Phaser said.

“Great,” Sunrunner replied.

“And you're terrified about all this.”

“Between you and me? _Absolutely_ terrified.”

“We'll need more mechs.”

“Doubtless.”

“Mechs we can trust.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Know any?”

He scoffed. “Everyone hates me except _you_ , and you dislike me intensely.”

“Very true. I suppose it's up to me, then.”

“It's why I came to you, yeah.”

She stared levelly at him. “Oh, really? And what would you have done had I refused to participate?”

Again, he scoffed. “Like that was ever going to happen. You're much too responsible.”

\-----

“I don’t like the way you’ve been staring at me, Blast Master,” Sunrunner complained.

“I’d recommend you become accustomed to it,” the bulky Astro sniffed, “because I have grave doubts my opinion of you will change a jot.”

“This _used_ to be a good plan,” he growled.

It had gone awry very quickly. _“Of course I told Blast Master,”_ Phaser had said, moments earlier. _“He’s my partner; my team mate. In the Astro Squad, we rely on one another to complete our missions and protect one another. More than that, Blast Master forms the other half of my vehicle mode – surely, you didn’t expect me to walk all the way to the Mountains?”_

At least she hadn’t told the other space cases. Sunrunner was concerned about how the Autobots would react to news of his impending ascension, and Blast Master’s reaction seemed to justify his fears. The super-strong, rocket-powered Micro eyed his future leader with a mix of pure hatred and total distrust; like he expected someone to jump out from the next corner, with a vid-cam, and yell “gotcha”. Sunrunner could scarcely imagine how the others… especially the ultra-analytical Heave… would take the news. They’d probably strap him to a rocket at fire him at Cybertron’s moon.

They were flying over Iacon, toward the golden city’s industrial area. Though shaped like a space-faring vehicle, Phaser and Blast Master’s combined form handled atmospheric travel easily. It was also far faster than Sunrunner, and his bruised ego took poorly to the shuttle having to slow down so he could keep up. Another saving grace: they wouldn’t be able to fly to the mountains for fear of being shot down by Decepticon batteries. Maybe they _would_ walk all the way.

“So… Blast _Master_ , eh?” he said, addressing the back half of the other craft. “Not too egotistical a name, is it? Or are you compensating for something?”

He’d never heard someone _harrumph_ before. He’d always assumed it was a word you could type out, but not a sound you could make. Amazingly, Blast Master proved to be quite adept at it. “It’s an acknowledgement of my near-peerless scientific acumen,” he remarked dryly. “Both Missile Master and I were fortunate enough to have earned our Masters degrees from Iacon University before it was razed by the Decepticons. I should have thought you would appreciate titles now… Prime.”

Sunrunner muttered a few choice curses under his breath, but said no more. He focused his attention on their destination; a small, out-of-the-way depot far from Autobase. The facility wasn’t much to look at… a vehicle-hauling trailer, a loading dock and little else… but it was, according to Phaser, the place they’d find a mech essential to their “mutual mission of madness”. _“If we are to wade through Decepticon territory,”_ she’d said, _“we must think like the Decepticons. And there is but one mech capable of that.”_

He’d known, instantly, who she’d meant.

Overload had been one of the first Micros to join the Second Great War. Bold and daring, the stocky Autobot’s greatest strength was not physical but mental. He was a born tactician who had an uncanny insight into the Decepticon mind-set. His plans struck a delicate balance between Autobot ethics and Decepticon brutality, ensuring their foes were met with sufficient force but morality and the sanctity of life remained paramount considerations. Sunrunner had heard mechs compare Overload to the legendary Ultra Magnus, who was said to be the greatest campaigner in Autobot history.

Those compliments, however, had become less frequent as concerns mounted. Overload would go missing for cycles at a time and return without saying a word. Eventually, the Racers were tasked to spy on him and learned the truth; he was parking himself on the very edge of Kaon to “better observe the enemy in its natural habitat”. His insight had become an unhealthy obsession – and a dangerous one. Overload was essential to the command structure and the war effort; had he been captured and tortured, the Decepticons would have gained a decisive advantage.

Overload was unceremoniously demoted to “asset relocation” – in other words, cargo-hauling. It was thought some time away from the battlefield… and safely within the walls of Iacon… would help the Autobot find his balance once more. Instead, Overload had become more eccentric and introverted. No one spoke to him any more, nor saw him unless he was making a delivery.

The three aerial Autobots angled themselves downward, landing next to the depot. Overload was lying on top of his trailer, staring at the sky.

“It all works in cycles,” he said in his characteristic, haunted voice. “Not the kind you find in units of time measurement. Cycles, as in concepts and events that repeat themselves. Cybertron is dying and war begins. Factions expand across the universe, affecting the lives of innocent, alien races. The war is won and peace returns; Cybertron is replenished physically by the resources of those worlds, and culturally by their history, technology and socio-political differences. One would be forgiven for thinking Primus itself put this cycle into effect, in order to continue its evolution and thus guarantee its continued relevance to the universe at large.”

Blast Master chuckled. “Is everything a conspiracy theory to you, Overload?”

He sat up. Sunrunner had not noticed before, but Overload’s optics were white, almost phosphorous. There were set deep into his face plate and so wreathed in shadow. The effect was unsettling… like staring down an underground tunnel at the bullet train that’s about to run you down.

“I hate that term,” he muttered. “It’s a comforting blanket the ignorant choose to cast over the facts. ‘Conspiracy theory’, they sneer, and then go on with their blinkered, unseeing existences. Not until it’s too late do they see the patterns that dictate their movements, the webs that entangle their limbs and force them to dance to the tune of the unseen puppet-master.” He stared at Sunrunner. “No mech, for example, is willing to confront the truth of this war: that it is being orchestrated by a survivor of the original Decepticon inner circle. One of Megatron’s own soldiers is perpetuating his beliefs and ideology, 18 million years old though it be, to suit his own ends.”

“ _Rrr_ ight,” Sunrunner nodded slowly. “And when we find him, we’ll let you know.”

Overload blinked, his trance broken by sarcasm. “Why are you here?” he asked suspiciously.

“Because of the cycles,” Phaser said. “There is a lot of truth in what you say, Overload, and we are in need of your counsel and assistance. _This_ one,” she jerked her thumb at Sunrunner, “is the new Prime. The Matrix has made its intentions known, and asks for him to come claim it from beneath the Manganese Mountains.”

“The Matrix?” Overload asked reverently. “Yes… of course. The cycles are spinning faster – the webs are tightening!” He reached into his sub-space pocket and pulled out a data track tablet. It bore a complex flow-chart, with different sections connected by coloured lines. The Micro tapped at some of the boxes with a small stylus. “That was the missing element – the presence of a Prime. In order for the cycle to repeat, for Primus to improve itself through the mining of other worlds, it must drive its people into the cosmos. And that can not occur without a Prime at the helm.” He smiled, one corner of his mouth twitching nervously. “The Manganese Mountains, you said? Hmm… Decepticon territory.”

“Which is why you are needed,” Sunrunner said, gripping Overload by the shoulders. He raised his voice, filling it with as much drama and pathos as he could. “Will you join our quest, Overload? Can I count on your wisdom to guide me through the darkest regions of our enemy’s stronghold, as Optimus Prime did Ultra Magnus lo, those many centuries ago?”

Again, Overload blinked. His jaw worked soundlessly for a moment. “Yes,” he blurted out suddenly, grabbing Sunrunner and pulling him into a tight embrace. “Yes, of course! My armour, my Spark, every _scrap_ of data in my processor – it’s all at your disposal!” He released the stunned Micro and ran toward the loading dock. “I just need to bring a few things!”

Phaser tapped him on the shoulder. “What was that?”

“Getting into character,” Sunrunner whispered, still a little shocked. “Everyone around me is crazy, and this whole idea is nuts, so I figure I’ll just give into it and pretend I’m the Prime already.”

Blast Master was looking over Overload’s trailer. “An excellent addition to the mission,” he said happily. “We three can ride aboard it when it is in this configuration and, in its alt mode, it will allow Overload to keep pace with us. The more flight capability we have, the better. What we could do with, now, is some… ahem… more muscle.”

An idea popped into Sunrunner’s head. _Flight… everyone around me is crazy… whole idea is nuts_. “I think I might be able to handle that side of things,” he grinned.

\-----

Blaze was cleaning his rotor assembly. Removing every drop of oil from the serrated blades took time and care, as did transferring it into the vats beneath his recharging station. His foes had gone to the trouble of bleeding all over his weapon; the least he could do was keep their generous offerings to the almighty Chaos Bringer.

“Yo, Blaze! Want to come kill stuff?”

He looked up. Sunrunner’s frame filled the doorway of his barracks. “I’m looking for someone to do loose-leash guard duty for an important convoy. It has to go right through the heart of ‘con-land which means there’s going to be _lots_ of killing. You interested?”

Blaze ran his thumb along his fourth blade, removing the last of Metrotitan’s oil. He wiped the digit against the lip of a test tube, watching the droplet trickle down to join the rest of the life fluid. Then he placed the tube with the others, stood up and, without a word, followed Sunrunner out of Autobase.

\-----

They met in the shadow of Metrotitan’s upper body. It had been Blast Master’s suggestion – the Decepticon’s heavy plating would shield the group from electromagnetic surveillance.

Though he loathed the idea of keeping secrets from his Astro Squad team mates, Blast Master was prepared to act with the level of secrecy requested by Phaser. In truth, there was little he wouldn't do for his partner. She was, sadly, blind to his undying devotion, but the rocket-powered scientist remained upbeat.

His studies of the universe had revealed inevitability in all things; thus would his Spark join with Phaser’s eventually. So many of their fellow Micros had coupled – Big Shot and Sidetrack, Barrage and Heave – which provided empirical evidence supporting his conclusion. Given her immense intelligence and appreciation for all things logical, Phaser would surely see the benefits of a non-combat pairing with Blast Master. They could move to the next level as simply as they could visit a new star.

For now, he would continue to wait. There was the war, of course, and now this new complication with that annoying Sunrunner. Though they lived on a deadline punctuated by Energon shortage and ballistic missiles, Blast Master knew he had plenty of time to share his feelings with Phaser.

His partner arrived first and he smiled, letting the joy in his Spark spread across his cobalt features. Overload, odd little mech that he was, was the next to show up. He detached his trailer and transformed, looking wondrously at Metrotitan.

“That panel on the right-hand side of his chest obscures a command centre,” he said, clearly talking to himself. “It would be the perfect spot for an unseen hand… for a mech wanting to manipulate the fate of Cybertron. But what would they gain from a sacrifice play? Metrotitan would have been a major drain on Decepticon resources, of course, but he had unquestionable value as a siege engine. So the question is: what was the point of deliberately losing such an asset in a front-on assault?”

Sunrunner was the last to rendezvous; to Blast Master’s chagrin, the leader-to-be actually _winked_ at Phaser. The scientist tried to hide his displeasure but failed miserably. He comforted himself in the knowledge the ruffian would be rebuked, were he foolish enough to make any advances, by Phaser. Her tastes were far too discerning to give Sunrunner anything beyond the services provided by a dutiful Autobot. Besides… she hadn’t blushed at his cheekiness, no. It was just light reflecting off her face plate, that was all.

“Presenting the final member of our caravan of cluelessness,” Sunrunner announced, sounding like a carnival barker, “the sultan of slicing… the doyen of disembowelling… the muscle that you requested… Blaze!”

Blast Master almost choked. “But,” he spluttered, “he’s a mad-mech! A psychotic! A _chaos cultist_!”

“He’s _perfect_ ,” Overload enthused.

“Have you taken leave of your senses, Overload?” Blast Master blubbered. “This mission doesn’t require… well, require _insane oil-thirsty berserkers_! Blaze is more a liability than an asset!”

“Really?” the tactician asked casually. He fixed Blast Master with a baleful stare. “When the Decepticons come to kill us – swarming, in great numbers, without any adherence to the rules of engagement or other combat niceties – who will meet them with equal force? You, Blast Master? Will you dirty that pristine, cyclonic steel armour to save a life? Can you loosen the yoke of Autobot ethics enough to do what is required, on the battlefield, to secure victory? Can you put aside your principles if _savagery_ becomes the only way to guarantee the continued survival of our world?”

Blast Master stepped involuntarily backwards. It felt as if Overload was pushing him away, just with his disturbing white optics. “No,” he admitted. “No, I can not.”

“And that’s why Blaze is perfect for this mission,” Overload said nastily. “Because he will cross the line you won’t, meaning you can stay pure and go on powering down at night.”

“It doesn’t matter who you choose,” boomed a voice from above, “because none of you will survive a nano-klick out there in the real world!”

The scientist looked around, fighting down panic. Blaze’s rotors were already spinning; the lunatic smiled lazily. Sunrunner, ever the fighter, pulled steel rods from pouches on his legs and snapped them together to form a staff. Phaser had pulled a small axe from sub-space – a weapon Blast Master did not know she carried – while Overload had initiated a half-transformation. Long, cylindrical panels slid over his knuckles and crackled with electricity.

Out the corner of his optic, Blast Master saw three pin-points of light. They moved rapidly closer to the small group and he ducked, feeling the wind as they passed over his head. They were, he saw, gleaming crimson shuriken. The first struck one of Sunrunner’s hands, causing him to drop his staff. The second disarmed Phaser; the third zeroed in on Blaze’s rotors. The Airie would not be separated from his weapon, however, and deflected the projectile – it whizzed away and buried itself in Metrotitan’s corpse.

A colourful streak whirled around them, and then coalesced into a tall, thin figure. Tailspin glared malevolently at them, ruby eyes flashing in his angry red face plate. His blue and silver body was taught with repressed fury, and his hands were filled with more shuriken.

“You don’t go anywhere,” he threatened, “until you’ve dealt with _me_.”


	3. Chapter 3

The problem, he reflected ruefully, hadn't changed. Not in millions of years. No matter what you did, how carefully you planned, someone would always want to rebel.

“We're out, ya damn lunatic,” Bombshock howled. “You hear me? We're _out_. That little stunt with Metrotitan just tore it. He was our last big mech – did you even stop and think about that?”

Merciless and belligerent, Bombshock was hell on the battlefield. His favourite tactic was to transform into his alt-mode – a blue and green, long-barrelled tank – and drive circles around his target. Once his team of like-minded bullies – Dropshot, Growl and Tracer – joined in on the fun, they'd all fire their weapons until the hapless fool in the middle had been ground into powder.

Bombshock liked to think he was the leader of the Decepticon Military Patrol. The others didn't agree. Dropshot – red face sneering out from under a green helm – thought he should be in charge because of his thicker armour. Growl – faster, possessing the rare gift of a gun usable in robot mode – would then stake his own claim. Not to be outdone, Tracer would whirl his helicopter blades malevolently and advance, ebony armour shining. That Bombshock kept nominal control was attributable, really, to him having the loudest voice.

“You're supposed to be our leader, but you go and blow our biggest asset on a suicidal frontal assault,” he raged. “You're no commander – you're an idiot! My mechs and I have a better chance of winning this war on our own than we do following a lunatic like you!”

On a platform high above the naysayer, comfortable in his throne, Skystalker yawned. He grew weary of Bombshock's bleating. It was wasteful... and Primus knew Energon wasn't plentiful enough to be wasted on insurgent, rebellious ranting. Especially when the fool had no concept of true leadership.

He raised his right hand and then, still bored, let it fall.

Bombshock saw the gesture and froze. His bruise-crew whimpered.

The atom scrambler's twin beams enveloped them before they could move. Skystalker watched, interested at last, as each member of the Military Patrol was broken back down into the metals from which he'd been forged. A thick puddle of raw protoform goop pooled on the shiny blue floor; a grate, built for just such an occasion, shuttered open and funnelled the sludge away to the storage tanks.

Above him, in the turret, Direct-Hit powered down the scrambler. He was the sort of mech Skystalker appreciated; loyal, punctual, violent and goal-oriented. Sadly, Direct-Hit was incapable of focusing on more than one task at a time. That was but a small drawback, Skystalker felt. The tactically-sound Micromaster never dreamed of advancing past his station, and so was the perfect second-in-command.

Skystalker glanced around the command centre. Direct-Hit's team, the Battle Squad, appeared largely unaffected. That was hardly surprising – nothing short of a tactical nuke made an impression upon Power Punch. The members of the Air Strike Patrol, however, were watching closely.

He knew, only too well, the way their insidious processors worked. Like every high-flying Decepticon since the dawn of time, they believed themselves superior to their colleagues. Some of them… like Stormcloud… weren’t shy about suggesting they were more suited to leadership than those currently in the role. None of them, however, were so stupid as to have missed the point of his demonstration. Nevertheless, it wouldn’t hurt to grind it in.

“Four less tanks to fuel,” Skystalker said in a mock-pleasant tone. “Would anyone else like to question the nature of our current campaign?”

No one spoke. The Air Strike Patrol members shook their heads furiously.

The problem, Skystalker reflected happily, hadn't changed. Not in millions of years. Nor, thankfully, had the solution.

\-----

“You don't go anywhere,” Tailspin threatened, “until you've dealt with _me_.”

Their reactions surprised him. Overload, of all mechs, was the first to attack. The thick-set Micro charged into the fray, holding his electro-knux up in a defensive position. And the shocks kept coming – the tactician actually managed to block Tailspin's kick before landing two blows of his own.

The Racer danced back, transformed and roared away. Once beyond Metrotitan's shadow, he swung around and zoomed back, aiming his front bumper directly at Overload. At the last possible second, he slammed on his brakes. Inertia caused his back end to lift; he went with it, transforming again. Tailspin's hood bent along the bottom seam of his windshield. He flipped over himself, travelling feet first through the air. His right heel slammed into Overload's chin and sent him sprawling.

He landed lightly, then pounced again. Phaser was dispatched with a quick backhand punch; she was stronger than expected, yes, but not tougher. Blast Master was another matter entirely. He was a big, very powerful mech with no obvious weak spots. Blaze would be even more of a challenge – Tailspin honestly doubted he could withstand the cultist's frenzied fighting style, but he was very much looking forward to trying.

“Enough,” Sunrunner called.

Tailspin stopped dead. “All right.”

The others looked at him, confused. They did not, of course, understand.

“What the frell are you doing, Racer?” Sunrunner demanded. The airborne Micro had reclaimed his staff and was holding it, across his body, with both hands. “Are you a long-time deep-cover Decepticon infiltration agent, or have you just popped a motherboard?”

He looked Sunrunner in the optics, trying to see it. _Yes_ , he thought, satisfied, _it's there. His chassis is as you'd expect. The mouth plate is right – best that his true feelings be hidden from his mechs. A moment ago, I wasn't sure I'd be able to do this... he_ is _a Battler... but now I'm left with no doubts._

In one fluid motion, Tailspin dropped to his knees, bent forward and rested his forehead against the ground. He spread his arms wide. “My life for the Prime,” he declared.

“Your what for the what now?” Sunrunner asked.

“My _life_ ,” Tailspin repeated, “for the Prime.”

“It's tradition,” Overload announced. He was picking himself up off the ground. “An old tradition, ancient when Prime Nova was a protoform. In the days before the Great War, soldiers from across Cybertron would present themselves to the Prime and beg a place among his elite. Some of the more ambitious fighters,” he looked sideways at Tailspin, “would slap the Big Bot's personal guard around first, as a sort of audition. Looks like Tailspin here wants a call-back.”

Tailspin rose, but remained on his knees. “All I've ever wanted was to serve a Prime,” he said, looking directly at Sunrunner. “I'd resigned myself to having been born centuries too late. Until I head what Star Convoy said to you.”

“You spied on us?” Phaser gasped.

“Reconnaissance,” he said dryly, “is just the politically-correct term for espionage.” He turned his attention back to Sunrunner. “I respect your reasons for doing this in secret. Also, you've picked a fine team. Blaze alone is a good choice – he won't stop fighting until eight breems after he's offline. But what you _don't_ have, Sunrunner, is someone who's been outside Iacon, time and again, and knows what you'll be up against. Like me.

“I said it at the start: you won't survive a nano-klick out there, in the real world, until you've dealt with me. I want to come along... I want to fight for you. Overload can provide insight, Phaser and Blast Master can analyse weirdness, Blaze will kill every 'con he meets... but none of them can go ahead of the pack and take out potential threats before they arise. I can.”

“But why would you?” Sunrunner asked. “You're a Racer, I'm a Battler... your buddies would never let you live it down.”

Tailspin's face hardened. “Loyalty to a team comes second to the Autobot ideal,” he growled. “Don't you get it? That's exactly why I've wished for a Prime, all my life – so we Micromasters can rise _above_ our petty differences, our tribal ways!” He scowled at others. “Yes, you and I have been rivals. But unlike some mechs, I don't question the wisdom of Primus. What it says, I believe... and will die to defend.”

Sunrunner cocked his head to one side. “Well, why the frell not?” he laughed suddenly – nervously. “I've already got two egg-heads, a conspiracy junkie and a guy who worships Unicron. Why not take along a noble knight-errant? The more the merrier!”

Tailspin rose and stretched out his hands. Small, but powerful, magnets in his palms activated, pulling his shuriken out of the scenery and back into his grasp. He secured them in their holster, then stood casually. “When do we leave?”

“No time like the present,” Phaser said. “We have some supplies – as many as we can take without alerting everyone – and a destination. The Mountains aren't too far... but far enough, if we don't get started.”

“Good time for it, too,” Overload concurred. “Most 'cons like to power down around this time, conserve their Energon for the long haul ahead. We should have a few hours to make an uninterrupted head start.”

“We move by air, then,” Tailspin added. “If the 'cons are napping, they're less likely to check their atmospheric sensors and sky-spies. We cover as much distance as we can by flying, then go by ground when they switch their optics back on.”

“Good plan,” Overload nodded. “You can come with me in my jet... the others can fly in their vehicle forms. We'll refuel when we make the first change to land travel.”

“Let's transform and roll out,” Blast Master enthused.

Overload's trailer unfolded and elongated, reshaping itself into a sub-orbital fighter. Tailspin slipped in behind the tactician. Phaser and Blast Master transformed and combined; Blaze was already in his helicopter mode. Tailspin kept his distance from the chaos worshipper, as he long had on the battlefield. He could feel the tension between them like a tangible thing. He wondered how he – a Primus devotee – and the Airie were going to get along in such close quarters.

Sunrunner was still in robot mode. “I'm supposed to be the leader,” he said incredulously. “Isn't anybody going to ask _my_ opinion?”

\-----

“You find yourself in a dark, dank corridor. There appears to be no one around... at first. Then, from the depths of the shadows, you hear an oil-curdling voice screaming...”

“Where's the Forty-weight?”

Blackout slammed the data track down in frustration. “Spaceshot!”

“I'm serious,” his combiner partner whined. “Where _is_ it? I wanna get _drunk_!”

Cement-Head still had the dice in his hand. “So do I get to cast a spell or what?”

Blackout sighed. This session was not going well. He'd thought they had all the time in the world. Skystalker had ordered them to patrol the area between Iacon and the Manganese Mountains – Primus knew why – and to remain on station until he called. Well, they'd driven their uber-awesome engines of destruction – the Ground Infantry Tank and the Freeway Demolition Cruiser – up and down the plains, and found _slag_. 

Terror-Tread had advised pulling over for a rest. They'd done so, transforming their vehicles into their staging base modes and connecting them with ramps. Blackout had then decided a rest wouldn't be half as refreshing as a quick game.

He _loved_ the game. One of the best things about the expansionist nature of the Transformers race was the way bits of extraterrestrial culture came back to the metal world. The game had come from some other planet – he'd forgotten its name; something like 'mud' – and he'd seized on it eagerly. Spaceshot had become addicted as well, which meant he always had someone to play with. And he'd sold Cement-Head on the idea it would improve his tactical thinking. Always looking for ways to compete with his twin, Hammer, the Micro had eagerly asked “what's a half-chaotic ranger?”.

Then it started to go wrong. Spaceshot, wanting to show off in front of Terror-Tread, said he'd rather get drunk. Cement-Head was too dense to muster up the basic level of imagination required. And if he tried one more time to cast “magic missile”, Blackout was going to wipe his processor with a richly-deserved EMP blast.

“What a bunch of dunce-a-cons,” Terror-Tread sneered. He was leaning on one of the tank's purple support struts, nursing a can of Forty-weight. Likely, he was hiding the slab from Spaceshot. “Ain't no game you can play that'll make you a soldier,” he went on. “Ain't no silly _imagination_ thing you can do that'll make you a killer.”

Blackout sniffed. “I'd say you had a point... but I happened to look at the last set of conflict data. My partner and I have four more kills than you this stellar-cycle, and we owe it to our heightened powers of visualisation, strategy and non-linear thinking. When was the last time _you_ plotted your attack in the middle of a battle, then changed your manoeuvres to match the enemy, huh?”

He giggled with pride. Spaceshot, giving up on the booze, sniggered and gave him a high five. That was his partner to a “t” – he'd go out of his way to look tough in front of other Decepticons but, when it was plain they'd never accept him, he'd fawn all over Blackout. You got used to it. 

Cement-Head stared at the dice reverently, like they were some kind of mystical item that would bequeath to him power and prowess. Terror-Tread spat a mouthful of mech-fluid onto the ground and strolled over to his vehicle's turret. “Dunce-a-cons,” he repeated. “Ain't no thing getting more kills when your damn tank can go under the Rust Sea. 'Specially when you can _fly_ , too. Frelling geeks. You'll end up like Bombshock's crew, one day, then it'll be my turn to laugh at you.”

“Don't count on it,” Blackout called mockingly.

“Yeah,” Spaceshot chimed in, “and don't waste your time up on those guns, either. This is a crap detail... there's not an Autobot within light years of this place!”

Unexpectedly, Terror-Tread started laughing.

“What?” Blackout demanded.

“Four more kills, was it?” the other mech asked, looking hungrily at the sky. “Well, now. In a breem or two, you pipe-necked bozos are gonna be two behind me.”

\-----

They'd travelled, for the most part, in silence. Unfortunately, that had given Sunrunner far too much time alone with his thoughts.

He wasn't one for introspection because, usually, he didn't like what he found. It was better, he'd always thought, to make lots of noise and have many conversations. That had annoyed mechs, he'd found, so he honed his talents to the point of utter frustration. He enjoyed torquing others off a lot more than he did pondering the reasons behind his actions, his personas, his life choices.

Sunrunner had tried striking up a conversation with Phaser, but Blast Master had butted in. “Why are you so petrified of quiet?” he'd asked snootily. Sunrunner couldn't very well go on talking then, and prove the exhaust-head right, so he clamped his jaw shut and kept on flying.

His subconscious, excited by the chance to say its peace, hadn't shut up since.

 _Exactly what are you trying to achieve here, proto?_ he asked himself. _Talk about conflicted... one minute you're puffed up, convinced you can do this Prime thing standing on your head. The next, you're all quiet and subservient and letting others do the thinking._

_Or... is that the way it's supposed to go? I mean, leaders have all sorts of advisors. Optimus Prime had an inner circle of either four or 18 mechs, depending on which legend you believe. Have I accidentally rounded up my own Phantasmagorical Five, just now, or is this a case of the blind leading the gullible?_

_I wonder if there's an answer to any of those questions. I wonder how other mechs reacted when they got told: “Hey, you're the Prime – here, hang onto this sacred life force until you get assassinated. Be sure to keep it clean and polished, 'cause you're gonna want to pass that thing on someday.”_

Sunrunner frowned inwardly. That was why he didn't listen to his “inner voices” - they argued around themselves in circles and never gave him anything like a useful solution. So much for that “getting in touch with yourself” crap. The Matrix must've lowered its standards, these past nine million years. It used to want heirs who were noble, wise and just. Now it was settling for brash, clueless and...

The explosion was so loud that it knocked Sunrunner out of the air. He'd not been hit – the sheer power of such a shell, so close to him, was enough to drop him like a stone. Recovering his senses, the Battler diverted all power to his engines and re-shaped his wings, doing all he could to pull up. Years of experience and excellence in aviation design smiled upon him; he lost a strip of paint to the surface of his world but no vital components.

Just a few feet off the ground, Sunrunner transformed and dug in his heels. He pulled up to a short, fast stop right in front of a bunch of leering Decepticons.

“Hi there,” he said brightly. “You know, I am having _just_ the _best day_. You?”

“Oh,” growled an unfamiliar, green-and-red Micro. He was sitting atop a large, purple, twin-barrelled canon. “It's looking up right now.”

The Decepticon fired. Sunrunner dodged the first shell but the second hit the ground under his feet, tossing him aside. He went with it and rolled, bounced, then got to his feet again. More shells followed, tracking him along the ground, and so he ran faster. If he could accelerate just a little more, he'd be going fast enough to transform and take off, right over the top of that... giant... freaking... _tank_.

“I was nice to a Racer, and _this_ is my reward?” he asked the heavens.

The front section of the tank broke away and formed a small, olive-green interceptor. It had a fusion cannon mounted on its right-hand side, manned by an eager-faced cone-head. Sunrunner knew him instantly: Blackout, the destructive nerd. That meant Spaceshot was controlling the bigger vehicle – the one with the long-range launchers that had brought him down. He'd known the goober twins for vorns; they'd clashed in the skies time and again, with Sunrunner always coming out the victor. He'd heard rumours they'd been transferred to infantry, which had made no sense... up until now. That tank of theirs was _frightening_.

“Like our new toy, Sunrunner?” Blackout chortled.

“It has a +9 modifier against airborne Autobots, with a -12 drawback to a foe's armour,” Spaceshot added, making even less sense than usual.

Blackout let loose with the fusion cannon. It was an old-school weapon, easily dodged by a nimble Autobot. The interceptor itself was another matter; Blackout drove like a demon, rapidly cutting off Sunrunner's every avenue of escape.

“Dammit,” he said aloud, “so much for working as a _team_ , people!”

A yellow rotor blade sliced past his face and ripped through the interceptor's front wheels. Blackout lost control, tried to turn, failed and rolled his precious little car. The blade continued in a wide arc – skimming just behind Sunrunner's head – and returned to its owner. Blaze smiled.

Sunrunner looked around. Overload was still in the sky, strafing Hammer. No, it wasn't Hammer – same mould, but the engineer was orange and purple. This guy was the same dull green and red as the dude on the cannon... meaning they were combiners, like the dweebils. Was this the brother Hammer supposedly had – the one who's name nobody could remember?

Overload was causing whoever-it-was severe problems. The mech was running toward a purple staging base of some kind; the fixed, front-facing guns it had weren't going to be much use against an aerial attack. The aforementioned turret was spinning in ever-faster circles, trying to draw a bead on Phaser and Blast Master. Its operator had no idea Tailspin was just metres away, preparing a get-to-know-you present that looked a heck of a lot like a fistful of shuriken.

With Blaze already jumping merrily about the big tank, causing Spaceshot to leak fluids in panic, Sunrunner was free to go chat with his old buddy Blackout.

“Yoo-hoo, nerd linger,” he called, dropping down to peer under the overturned interceptor. “You still online?” He snapped his staff together. “I've a friend here who'd _love_ to have a few words with you. Like 'bash' and 'break' and 'brawl'...”

Transformers have six senses: hearing, taste, touch, sight, smell and electromagnetic detection. Sunrunner tended to feel the last of these as a tingling at the back of his neck, and had long ago learned to heed that sensation. As he ducked, the EMP blast roared over him from behind. Had he not moved it would have caught him square in the skull – resulting in the irreversible erasure of his processor. You'd live through it, yes, but retain the intelligence of the average personal chronometer.

He cursed himself for a fool. It was so easy to focus on the “nerd” aspect of Blackout that you forgot the “destructive” part. The Decepticon was a tenacious, dedicated fighter and, in his own way, quite deadly. His over-sized arms and odd design gave him immense upper body strength, and the EMP generators in his wrists had felled Autobots dozens of times bigger than Sunrunner. He had to stop writing Blackout off as a lightweight and focus on winning.

Sunrunner dashed across the landscape; fast enough to stay ahead of the EMP, but not fast enough to take to the skies. The others were in similarly poor situations... from what he could see, it had all gone to hell in a matter of seconds.

The 'con he didn't know had Tailspin by the throat and was shaking him like a rag doll. Both the Astros and Overload were on the ground – the former two unconscious, the latter back in his vehicle mode and driving at top speed. The tactician was being chased by a long, purple demolitions truck – the alt-mode of the staging base – and at the wheel was Hammer's clone. Overload was totally outclassed by the truck, which was rapidly gaining on him. He needed a lot more speed to execute a transform-and-take-off escape... speed he could not muster as he tried to juke and weave out of the larger vehicle's destructive path.

Blaze, surprisingly, wasn't doing much better. He'd reverted to helicopter mode and was trying to stay out of Spaceshot's range. There were thick, black scorch marks across his tan bodywork, and smoke trailed from his tail assembly. The Decepticon must've gotten him up close and personal, forcing him to try a long-range attack. Against a tank, though, long-range was the worst kind of range.

Sunrunner observed it all in a split-second; one of the benefits of being a flier was the ability to size up a battle quickly. And, were he in the air, the Micro would have known precisely what to do. He could have thought of a half-dozen ways of evening the odds, changing the playing field, turning the tables. But he wasn't in the air. He was stuck on the ground like a common, garden-variety Autobot, and his lack of altitude was likely going to cost him his life.

 _Some leader_ , his inner voice sneered. _Face it, Sunrunner: the Micromasters just don't work as a team. Not since Countdown died, and never again. Each individual team gets on okay – well enough to get the job done, anyway – but once they're outside their gang, their useless. Think about it: you've got a Battler, a Racer, two Astros, an Airie and a guy who flies around in his trailer. There's no cohesion in that setup; there's no balance or teamwork. If you thought you had yourself a round table of knights, a set of brothers in arms, then you were living in a fool's paradise!_

A bolt of energy... of anger... ran through his Spark. He refused to go out like that. Whether he was truly the Matrix-heir or not – whether he was fit to even lead androids to a picnic – didn't matter at that moment. If he kept thinking that way he was dead, grand destiny or no. He had to live in the moment – the lethal, die-at-any-second moment – and figure out a way to survive. Then and only then could he start thinking about his friends... and, after that, he'd worry about being the Prime.

Blackout had not let up. The 'cons must have been sitting on a much larger pile of Energon than the Autobots, because the goober was firing like he was wired into a power plant. Conventional weapons were useless against EMPs; their systems went on the fritz before the first round had left the chamber. And even if he could transform and bring his alt-mode missiles to bear, Sunrunner would likely be knocked straight back down – and the chances of him landing on his feet, after being “pulsed”, were zero.

“Wait a minute,” he said aloud. “Yeah!” Beneath his face plate, he grinned. He'd had an idea so brilliantly crazy – so unconventional – that it just might work.

“Aw, Blackout, look what you've done,” he yelled. “You zapped your nice, new go-kart with your own EMP blaster! Gosh, whatever will Skystalker say when it comes time for you to explain it to him?”

“He won't care,” Blackout replied, “because I'll have just presented him with your _head_.”

Doing his best to look frightened, Sunrunner bolted back toward the interceptor. He dropped, rolled and cowered right next to its empty cockpit. Hopefully, the expression on his face was suitably pathetic.

He never got a proper review, but the grin Blackout flashed him was proof his act was working. He watched as the Decepticon raised his arms dramatically, savouring the moment... just as the Autobot knew he would. When he saw his enemy flex his wrists, Sunrunner threw his staff like a javelin and hit the floor.

Made of nothing but inert steel, the weapon had no systems for the EMP to disable. It continued on, unaffected by the waves of radiation flowing over it. Too confident, too trusting in his own magnificence, Blackout didn't have time to dodge the attack. The staff passed through his chest and out his back, severing his central spinal strut and exploding gore across the planet's surface. The nerd coughed once, painfully, and pitched forward.

Sunrunner jogged across and checked on him. Blackout had dropped into temporary stasis-lock. Good. He'd wanted to disable the little doofus, not kill him – he had a feeling that would be a very _un_ leader-like thing to do. The wound was too serious for even a Micromaster's accelerated healing abilities, but some time in a repair bay would set him right.

Although, really, that wasn't his problem. His team mates... _his_ mechs... were.

Overload was his first priority. Solving that problem would require a little help. Phaser was out cold, but Blast Master was coming around. Sunrunner hauled the stuffy scientist to his feet and slapped him, just once across the face, to bring him back into operational status.

“I suppose you enjoyed that,” Blast Master scowled.

“No time to enjoy it,” the Battler replied. “I'm too busy saving everyone. Now: here's the plan.”

The Astro listened, glaring as if he were mad. But he grudgingly agreed the idea was sound, and ran off to put it into action.

Sunrunner tuned into the inter-Autobot radio. “Overload,” he said, “don't ask any questions. Just loop back 'round past the downed interceptor and, once your cab has cleared it, de-hitch your trailer.”

“What? But...”

“No ‘buts’, just do.”

He joined Blast Master beneath the interceptor. Overload thundered toward them, the truck followed just a few metres behind. Doing as he was told, the tactician uncoupled from his trailer and shot off like a rocket, gaining some extra speed because of his lighter load. The Decepticons, intent on a kill, ignored the long, rectangular float and kept going.

Which was precisely the cue for which Blast Master had waited. The brawny intellectual came out from under the interceptor and grabbed the still-rolling trailer with both hands. Planting his feet and twisting his mid-section, the Astro used the trailer's momentum to spin it around, through a full 360 degrees, twice. At the end of his second swing, he let it go.

The trailed flipped up into the air and came crashing down on the truck's rear half. The impact was horrendous. Hammer Jr was ejected from the driver's seat; the mech in the turret was thrown sideways and thudded, painfully, into a nearby retaining wall. The truck, bereft of its operators, slowed to a crawl and then stalled.

Overload pulled up short and transformed. “Fascinating,” he said.

But Sunrunner was on the move once again. He had, tucked under his arm, the interceptor's fusion cannon. It was, like the vehicle itself, not operational – but that didn't matter, given the use Sunrunner had for it. He covered the distance between Blast Master and Blaze in record time, then hefted the cannon as he had his staff.

“Blaze,” he cried, “your friend deserves a split!”

He threw the cannon into the air, its looping arc taking it directly past Blaze. The helicopter transformed back to robot mode and brought its rotors down, savagely, across the discarded weapon. While it had been rendered harmless, its potent fuel source – a small anti-matter cell – had not. The obsidian object – black, even against Cybertron's ebony skies – plummeted toward Spaceshot, freed from its casing by Blaze's attack.

Spaceshot saw the anti-matter – the heart of a black hole – falling toward him and bailed out immediately. That left the tank to roll out of control and slam into the interceptor. Both vehicles buckled and twisted on impact; the fuel tanks of the green car caught alight and exploded.

The anti-matter core, meanwhile, bounced harmlessly around and then rolled off. Having to listen to Big Shot for vorns on end had actually proven useful. He'd once told Sunrunner that anti-matter cores were rendered inert upon contact with the atmosphere. It was a deliberate, and top secret, design feature specifically included to prevent mechs destroying themselves. Mechs unaware of such things… like Spaceshot… would simply think “black hole!” and get the frell out of the way.

In the distance, Tailspin's assailant was distracted by the carnage. It was all the opening the Racer needed. He drove two of his throwing weapons into his foe's neck, and a third into the centre of his forehead. The Decepticon howled in pain and pushed Tailspin away, then beat a retreat of his own.

Sunrunner made his way across to Overload and Blast Master; they were in the process of reviving Phaser. Blaze and Tailspin joined them.

As one, the Autobots watched their foes high-tail it back to Kaon. Blackout and Spaceshot were back in the air, albeit erratically; Sunrunner guessed Blackout was still unconscious, so his partner was trying to not only run the engines but also plot their heading. An easy task when you did it all the time but, when you were used to sharing the duties a partner, you had problems.

Phaser struggled to her feet. “Are we alive?” she asked.

“Thanks to Sunrunner,” Tailspin said proudly, “yes.”

The femme blinked. “I must have been hit very hard,” she laughed. “I thought I had heard you say we survived thanks to Sunrunner!”

Blast Master coughed uncomfortably. “That would be because Tailspin _did_ say that.”

“He did?” She looked the Battler up and down. “That… actually, that is pretty bloody impressive, Sunrunner.” She grinned. “Decided to play the part after all, have we?”

Sunrunner looked at her… at the mechs... at _his team_. Something about the sight of them all together – battered but unbowed – felt right. They’d succeeded not only because of teamwork, not only because they’d abandoned the traditional Micro way of thinking, but because _he_ had stepped up to the plate and made some very good calls.

“It’s easy enough to do your thing when you’re on your own,” he said. “But when things get difficult… or downright weird... it’s better to have a few good people on your side.

Overload looped an arm across his shoulders. “Spoken like a Prime,” he enthused.

 _Maybe_ , Sunrunner thought. _And maybe all those questions of mine do have a right answer, after all._

\-----

“You got a call from _who_?” Hightower asked.

“Cement-Head,” Buckethead replied. “You know – Hammer’s brother. He’s in trouble.”

The taller, leaner Micro sniffed. “So why doesn’t he run to his brother for help, then?”

Buckethead smiled. “Because he hates Hammer and wants his spot in Decepticon command. Sound like anyone else you know?”

He knew he was preaching to the converted. The rivalry between the Constructicons and Hammer’s similarly-named Constructor Squad was fierce. Hightower had long resented the Squad for its combining abilities and the power its members wielded within Skystalker’s hierarchy. It had driven him to overcompensate in the most stupendous of ways. Even so, the snobby, supercilious, unpopular perfectionist would leap upon any chance to make Hammer look bad.

“What does he need help with?” Hightower asked slowly.

“They found, of all things, an Autobot patrol heading for the Manganese Mountains. Interestingly, it wasn’t any one particular Patrol… there were representatives of many different groups.”

Hightower arched an optic ridge. “Odd. Not to mention distasteful.”

Buckethead tried to hide his enthusiasm. Finding Autobots, outside of Iacon, was a rare and wondrous thing. Though more modest than his fellow Constructicons, Buckethead was the most malevolent of the team, and his favourite pastime was incorporating the chassis of fallen Autobots into his architecture. Good specimens were _so_ hard to find in these Energon-starved times.

“Perhaps,” Hightower began, “there’s something wrong with their processors. A glitch that’s making them behave in erratic ways.” He smiled – it was not a nice expression. “A cross-section of each of their skulls would be most fascinating, don’t you think?”

“Undoubtedly,” Buckethead agreed. “And what’s left of them would look lovely on the ramparts of the next fortress we build.”

Hightower extended his right hand; Buckethead shook it firmly. “It’s agreed,” they said in unison – as they did any time the Constructicons began a project.

As Hightower went to gather the rest of the team, Buckethead smiled dreamily. That expression, together with his unfortunate name, caused some to underestimate him. It was a mistake they made but once. The more at peace Buckethead appeared, the more horrifying his finished product.

“Micromasters always travel in packs,” he said to himself. “That has leant a certain _blasé_ uniformity to all of my designs so far. Oh, to have a smattering of each of the different types of Autobot in my next work! Truly, it will be a most macabre masterpiece.”


	4. Chapter 4

It took an entire cycle to climb to the peaks of the Manganese Mountains with ropes and magnetic cables. It had taken the better part of another to get back down. For a mech like Sunrunner, used to traversing distances through the simple expediency of flight, the journey was torture.

He reasoned this was the Matrix's way of teaching him patience. That was the only explanation for keeping a sacred life force in a place that could be annexed, over-run, besieged, bombed or even irradiated until it was uninhabitable. The Matrix had manipulated the Autobots, millions of years ago, into storing it somewhere hazardous so its next heir could learn a few lessons in humility, team work and patience.

And oh, what classes he'd taken! A pinch of manganese boosted your octane rating and reduced engine knocking, but large doses threatened to flood your systems and stop your engine doing _anything_. Throw in clouds of oxidised, poisonous manganese gas and winds that grounded all save Overload's trailer, and it was a nightmare.

The golden key pulsed in his clenched fist, pulling Sunrunner toward a nearby ledge. The object had charted their course from the moment they'd reached the foot of the mountains. He called the others over and they gathered on the small, pinkish-red outcrop.

Before them rose a huge door. It would have been tall enough to admit Star Convoy... which, he realised, made sense. He doubted even the Matrix had guessed the Transformer race would have down-sized to a point where its tallest members barely broke the eight-foot mark.

“How do we get in?” Tailspin asked.

“If you have a key,” Phaser said, taking the object from Sunrunner, “you look for a lock.” The Astro scientist walked up to the structure, holding the key out in front of her. Amazingly, the doors started to swing inwards, as if it were magnetically repelled by the artifact.

“Eminently logical,” Blast Master nodded. “Manganese doesn't form a permanent magnet, but it does exhibit such properties in the presence of a strong magnetic field.”

Overload regarded the spectacle with his creepy, phosphorus eyes. “Religion is just science by a different name,” he muttered. “Clouds of dark matter evolve to sentience, and we call them gods. Ignore strict thermodynamic laws – that energy suffusing your chassis is mystical. Yet another conspiracy feeding the palatable to the gullible while blinding them to the unpleasant realities that shape, alter and dominate their destinies.”

“You really believe that?” Sunrunner asked. “So why tag along – why help me?”

“You can't change the system unless you're inside it,” Overload replied.

Sunrunner heard a growling noise behind him. Blaze was crouching, hunched forward like an animal. His face was a mask of distrust; his lips were curled and his dental plates bared. The Micro's whole body was shaking with tension.

“What are you... ah,” he said. “You worship chaos, and this is just about the centre of order on Cybertron, isn't it? You might turn into a pillar of sodium or spontaneously combust.”

Overload sighed. “Religious nonsense.”

“Nonsense or not, I'm not one to ask mechs to chuck their principles,” Sunrunner said firmly. “Blaze: you don't have to come in if you don't want to. But maybe you could stay out here and watch our backs? I'm sure there'll be some Decepticons along, sooner or later. Then you could sacrifice them to your Dark God and feel much better about all this. Wouldn't that be great?”

Blaze visibly relaxed. He straightened up, a dreamy expression on his face plate. The Airie turned his back on the entrance and fixed his gaze on the wind-swept pass, keeping an intense watch.

“I'll stay, too,” Tailspin announced.

“Seriously? You believe in this stuff more than any of the rest of us. Now you're going to pass up a meet-and-greet with your god?”

“I don't need to see it in order to believe it,” the Racer explained. “I've got my faith. And,” he looked coolly at Blaze, “two guards are better than one when the other guy's beliefs might lead him to firebomb a tunnel while you're inside.”

Sunrunner didn't argue. He'd asked Blaze along because he was a mad-keen fighter, the sort of swords-mech you want on a fool's errand. He didn't trust the helicopter any more than Tailspin did.

“Okay,” he said. “Let's roll.”

\-----

“The Racer and the Airie,” Scavenger announced. “They've been left behind as guards.”

“Poor fools,” Quickmix cackled. “They get to be the first to sample my wares!”

He was one happy materials fabricator. The Manganese Mountains were like a mall filled with acres of delicious, caustic elements! He could scarcely wait to finish combining the goodies Long Haul was dumping into his ever-spinning barrel.

“I thought we was gonna scrap some 'bots,” Long Haul groused. “I do this stuff alla the time, an' I don't wanna be doin' it here, too!”

“Pipe down, Long Haul,” Scavenger sneered. “No one wants to hear you complaining.”

“An' no one wants you hangin' around, Scavenger,” the tough, bulky mech replied. “I don't complain about that, ya little weasel, an' I think you should be thankin' me for it.”

The fabricator savoured Scavenger's wounded look. Among the steam shovel's wondrous abilities was his knack for detecting and collecting invaluable trace elements. If he'd had anything resembling a spinal strut, Scavenger could have been a real power-broker in the ranks. Fortunately, a sustained campaign of abuse and belittlement kept him self-conscious and malleable, ever-dedicated to his “only friend”... Quickmix.

“I found the Autobots, didn't I?” Scavenger countered. “I didn't see _you_ doing that!”

Quickmix truly believed the day was coming – and soon – when he would depose the joint leadership of Buckethead and Hightower, and take command of the Constructicons. His domination of Scavenger and faux-support of Long Haul – who was near permanently depressed – formed phase one of his strategy.

Phase two was much, much harder, given the troublesome raw materials with which he had to work.

Bonecrusher – the brutish, insanely powerful bulldozer – longed to destroy that which he hated. And he hated _everything_. That made him a valuable puzzle piece; one Quickmix longed to possess. He was certain Bonecrusher would be unhappy until Cybertron was nothing but a rubble-strewn ghost planet; a state of mind that put him very much at odds with the Constructicons' ongoing mission.

Buckethead and Hightower kept him in line. They had the smarts to set him loose, as often as possible, to vent his fury – and that kept him loyal. Quickmix would have to seduce or eliminate Bonecrusher before he made a move on the top spot. The means to achieve that, however, escaped him.

“The useless twit's found them,” Bonecrusher barked, slamming one fist into the other. “So can I go crush 'em already?”

Buckethead and Hightower were, as usual, at the rear. That's where they tended to lead from. They were making some final adjustments to the team's one-mech fighter jet.

“If Quickmix is _finally_ ready with his goop,” Hightower sighed wearily, “then yes.”

The fabricator ignored the jibe. He hated Hightower most of all, but still had to play along. He slipped back into his carefully-crafted “mad scientist” persona. “Absolutely, oh yes, indeed,” he giggled, losing himself in the role. “My soup of suffering is ready for its taste-testing!”

“Then move out,” Buckethead announced. “Our newest trophies await us.”

\-----

The key also opened another door set deeper into the mountain. Beyond it lay a chamber unlike any other on Cybertron. Instead of the silver and gold metals of their home world, its walls were made from some kind of rich, dark blue metal. A purple grid ran over every surface and onto the floor, which ended abruptly in a deep, dark pit.

“The Well of All Sparks,” Blast Master announced. “The place into which we download when we die.”

“The accumulated lives, experiences and wisdom of an entire race, all in one spot,” Overload nodded. “It's why we fight, rather than abandoning Cybertron. Conspiracy or not, those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it.”

Uncomfortable, Sunrunner looked around the chamber. “I think I'm just plain doomed.”

At the sound of his voice, the room came alive. Every wall exploded with light – dark blue and purple sloughed off and ran into the deep pit, making it glow unnaturally. The Autobots were surrounded with brilliant haze that forced them to shield their optics. Fighting the glare, Sunrunner saw a large golden sphere descend from the ceiling and hover over the centre of the Well.

“I am Vector Sigma,” the sphere bellowed in harsh, grating tones. “Before Cybertron was, _I_ was! Who reactivates me? And... where _are_ you?”

Sunrunner cursed. “Down here,” he called. “ _Way_ down here. And the name's Sunrunner. Hi.”

“Why have you done this thing?” the globe demanded.

“We've come a frell of a long way,” he began, “through some pretty ordinary scenery because we were told the Creation Matrix was here. And I've been told I'm a _grossly_ undeserving Prime, but that I have to do the job anyway or we're all going to die. Little help?”

“Insert the key,” Vector Sigma intoned.

Sunrunner paced back to the end of the chamber, took a running start and transformed. He traversed the distance between the floor and the hovering, glowing orb. The Well of All Sparks yawned wide below him. It was a dizzying, seemingly bottomless drop. Only the faintest of blue glows, so deep was but a pinprick of light, gave him any indication the chasm had an end-point.

Initiating a partial transformation, he stretched out his right arm, extended the key – and hesitated. Doubts he thought he'd conquered rose up once more. What right did _he_ have to...

“Sunrunner,” Phaser called from below. She smiled at him. The expression was gentle, encouraging... trusting. “Terror of the skies.”

Flushed with confidence, he rammed the key home.

A corona of blue energy threw him backwards. He caromed off a wall, transformed and crashed to the floor. Phaser ran across and helped him up.

Vector Sigma was, meanwhile, budding. As they watched, an object grew out of the side of the globe and then floated gently down toward them. It was, like its “parent”, a sphere. Blue energies crackled within its golden confines and two long, silver handles protruded from its sides.

“The Creation Matrix,” Overload breathed.

“My word,” Blast Master exclaimed. “Sunrunner, it _does_ look like your chest!”

The Battler had to agree. Substitute the energy chamber for the circle on his upper cockpit, and the handles for the design of his left and right breast plates, and you could sketch a pseudo-Matrix on his blueprint. The revelation should have been comforting but, for Sunrunner, it was not. A horrid sense of inescapable destiny loomed over everything; it was as if forces beyond his control had conspired to dictate every step of his life... every decision, every movement... from even before his protoform chassis had cooled.

“Everything is a conspiracy,” Overload said, quietly, at his side. “The trick is to know when you're being played, and then find a way to make the game suit your own ends.”

“For a crazy mech, you make good sense sometimes,” Sunrunner admitted.

The Matrix floated down to the floor and came to rest.

“Once you've put that in your chest,” Blast Master mused, “don't you have to take on a new name?”

“Like what?” the Battler asked. “You want I should call myself Sunrunnermus Prime?”

The Astro wrinkled his nose. “Nothing _that_ gauche. But, given both your current designation and an optic to history, you could adopt a name like... oh, like 'Solaris Prime'!”

“ _Solaris_ Prime?”

“How about 'Sunturion Prime'?” Overload volunteered. “That's a noble name. It's just like your old name, but it sounds like a great protector. Perfect for a Prime.”

“I hereby take back everything I've ever said about either of you being intelligent,” the Battler exclaimed. “Now: anyone want to explain how this is going to fit in my chest?”

The others stared. “Ah,” was all Overload could manage.

“We could load it up on Overload's trailer and take it back to Autobase,” Phaser suggested. “Once you get past the mysticism, this is really nothing more than an energy storage/transference device. Perhaps we could devise a way to download its contents into a smaller version of the holder.”

“Now _that's_ intelligence,” Sunrunner said warmly. He reached down to grab the Matrix, touching its handles with one hand, and the room exploded once again.

Blue lightning arced across every surface, pushing the Autobots away while at the same time ensnaring Sunrunner with angry, electrified tendrils. Fused to the silver handle, the Micro could do nothing as both he and the Matrix - which was shooting off bolts of energy - rose into the air and hung suspended in space.

A large, particularly jagged bolt reared up from the golden surface, like a serpent, and appeared to look at him. Then it struck, driving itself into the vent-like crest on his forehead. Sunrunner felt his consciousness slip away from his body. He began to panic. Was the Matrix absorbing him, rather than the other way around? Was he going to be possessed by the object instead of carrying it?.

“Relax, Sunrunner,” echoed a powerful, yet gentle, voice. “Everything is as it should be.”

Sunrunner opened his optics and found himself in a cavernous, crystal room. The space was serene, far removed from the chaos of the Vector Sigma chamber. He wasn't sure where he was, but the entire place felt orderly. Turning, he looked at the speaker... and found himself staring up into the very face plate of history.

“Welcome to the Creation Matrix,” Optimus Prime said. “I've been waiting for you.”

\-----

The acid scorched his right arm – his throwing arm – and left it numb.

Wincing in pain, Tailspin tracked the noxious substance back to its source. There they were, several hundred metres above: the Constructicons. The lesser of Skystalker's two building teams, out on their own and eager to make a name for themselves.

The Racer was silently thankful for his enhanced healing abilities. The feeling was returning in his injured limb. With sensation, however, came shock – the acid had carried with it a nanobot load. The microscopic, barely-sentient machines had slipped between the atoms of his armour and begun chewing through his on-board weapons system. Anti-viral programs were going to work, but it scarcely mattered; for the foreseeable future, Tailspin was without his shuriken.

Given the terrain, that was going to be a problem.

Blaze had managed to dodge the acid; the Airie had transformed and headed up. He didn't get very far – the mountain winds were still horrifically intense and far too strong for a helicopter. One of Blaze's rotors bent and he fell back to the outcrop, transforming as he plummeted.

Tailspin managed to get himself below his colleague and catch him, saving him from a debilitating landing. Blaze did not thank him, of course – the Airie never spoke – but he did nod once, curtly, as he dropped into a fighting stance. Tailspin copied the movement.

“You've no idea how happy you've made me,” Buckethead called. The Constructicon hovered above them in a garish, purple-and-green jet. “To have both tyres _and_ rotors in a single design is a dream of mine. Rest assured, Autobots, that whatever is left of you will find good homes. Hightower will marry your weaponry to other Decepticons, Quickmix will melt down the surplus and use to to build engines of destruction, and I will immortalise you in architecture that will last for a million years!”

The Constructicons attacked. It was frustrating, how easily the green-and-purple trucks moved over the hazardous terrain. The Constructor Squad were renowned for their creations, yes, but these mechs had it all over their rivals when it came to mobility. Specially-designed tyres allowed Long Haul and Scavenger to ignore gravity and drive down the sides of the mountains, as did Bonecrusher's treads. Hightower abseiled down the sheer surface using his hook. Quickmix and Buckethead remained in the jet; the former stirring another toxic brew while the latter served as pilot.

Tailspin turned to Blaze. “Alright, Unicron spawn,” he began, “I think it's safe to say neither one of us likes the other.”

Blaze, a feral expression on his face plate, hissed.

“Right now, that doesn't matter at all. We either work together or we die, understand?”

By way of answer, the helicopter lifted his rotors and brought them down across his knee. The central bolt snapped. Blaze threw two of the yellow blades over to Tailspin. Surprised, the Racer nonetheless caught the makeshift weapons and twirled them between his fingers. They were no shurikens, but they would have to do.

Bonecrusher came at them first. He drove at Tailspin, full-tilt, and then transformed. Using the heels of his treads like roller skates, he accelerated and lowered his tri-pointed head. “I hate you,” he screamed.

Tailspin powered forward, putting his right arm straight out. At the same time, Blaze snuck around the enraged Decepticon and dropped to all fours. In unison, Tailspin clotheslined Bonecrusher just under the jaw, and Blaze chop-blocked his knees from behind. Bonecrusher yelped, just once, as the twin blows lifted him off his feet and sent him sailing over the edge of the outcrop.

Using his momentum, Blaze executed a hand-spring. He drew one of the blades and whipped it into the air. It sailed across the gap and sliced through Hightower's line. The surgeon, possessed of skills useful only in close-quarters, wailed shrilly as he tumbled after Bonecrusher.

Tailspin transformed. He skidded around 360 degrees and drove as fast as he could at the gap. He cleared the outcrop and kept going, directly on target. At the last minute he reverted to robot mode and, using a variation on the way he'd attacked Overload, drove both feet into the side of the mountain.

Instantly, cracks began to form. Manganese was a hard metal but also very brittle – once it began to break, it would keep on splitting. The cracks spider-webbed their way upward, chipping the surface beneath Long Haul and Scavenger. The dump truck and steam shovel wobbled for a moment, fighting the inevitable, before gravity reasserted its control on the situation and pulled them down.

They passed Tailspin as they fell. The Autobot was clinging tightly to a yellow rotor he'd driven into the cracks, like a makeshift pinion.

“Four down, two to go,” he whooped. “Wait a second – where _is_ the jet?”

Blaze pointed.

Buckethead's craft was below them; it must have moved while they were taking down Bonecrusher. The demented architect had caught each of his team mates and they glowered from their hand-holds.

“I concede your point, Autobot – we Constructicons are not warriors,” he yelled. “But this war will not be won by the soldiers. Oh no. With resources so low, it will be the efficient... the imaginative... that control Cybertron's future. And none are more efficient or imaginative than us.”

The jet, stronger than the winds, soared back toward the mountain tops. As Tailspin watched, the Constructicons leaped from the jet and, in mid-air, began to transform. Their vehicle split into eight pieces; each one reached out to a Decepticon with bolts of pink lightning. The strange assembly merged together and the Racer saw, to his horror, a transformation unlike any other.

Buckethead curled in on himself to form the chest; Bonecrusher attached to the other side of the jet-piece to form the spine. The jet's nosecone, clearly a rifle, slid into the purple fist that attached itself to Scavenger. An identical fist fastened itself to Hightower, while the jet's flat wing-pieces became feet. Long Haul and Quickmix bridged the gap between them and a lower torso as a malevolent, jagged head rose above purple shoulders.

With a snarl and a bellow, the beast gouged its left arm and foot into the mountainside. Had it been standing, it would have easily passed the 25 foot mark. Purple eyes glowed hungrily; the massive gun locked onto Tailspin and Blaze.

“We are Devastator,” the behemoth announced. “And you, foolish Autobots, are _dead_.”

\-----

“Now is the time of your ascension, Sunrunner,” Optimus Prime intoned. “You have before you a task no other Prime in history has faced. What was, to most of us, a dark spectre on the horizon – a planetary famine – is your daily reality. It falls to you, then, to reverse this apocalypse.”

Sunrunner looked up, reverently, at his... well, his predecessor. He was no student of history, but every mech ever assembled knew Optimus Prime. Most honoured of the Autobot leaders, Optimus had long been held up as the greatest son of Cybertron. Though it fell to others to end the Decepticon conflict, such a day would not have come had Optimus not blazed the trail.

“You say it like it's going to be hard,” Sunrunner replied, “and I appreciate that. Really. It's great to get some sense out of someone, even if it's a corpse.” He coughed self-consciously. “Want I want to know is: why me? I'm nobody... a hot-shot fly boy, a nuisance, a mech who can't even muck in with his own team. I lucked out back there, against Blackout and his mooks, but the Autobots can't rely on luck!”

Optimus looked into his optics. “We are, all of us, nobodies and nuisances,” he said kindly. “We might be archivists, using data tracks to shield us from the horrors of war. We could be factory workers, naïve to the ways of the world, blinded by another mech's abilities and thinking might makes right. We might be young soldiers who make brash, poor decisions and cost the lives of others. We could be cavaliers, fighting the good fight, fearful of a destiny already revealed to us.

“A Prime, Sunrunner, is no different than any other mech. We are marked by fate, but it remains our choice – and our choice alone – who we become. It is a name, a title, bestowed upon those given the chance to make a difference. All we can ever do is our best.”

Sunrunner snorted. “A difference,” he said bitterly. “Optimus, we're _dying_ out there. This is no war like you fought, it's battle of attrition. Micros get only two options: we can starve to death, or we can take a round through the skull. Either way, our deaths are completely pointless – because each battle eats up more resources, and to the victor goes nothing but the pre-chewed scraps of a world.

“How do you end that cycle of violence? If you lay down your arms, you're murdered in your recharging bay. If you take up arms, you just use up the very things you're fighting to keep. It's crazy – and I'm crazier still for believing I can do anything about this!”

He slumped to the transparent, crystalline floor, utterly dejected.

“Sunrunner,” Optimus said, “No counsel I can offer will offset your fears. But remember: you don't have to do this alone. You have your inner circle; their strength is yours, as yours will be theirs. You also have _us_ – five lifetimes' worth of resolve, of nobility, of honour and wisdom. Draw on us as often as you need; drink of our experiences. We do not have the answers but, in concert with all that you will learn, perhaps we can find a way to save the world for which we all gave our lives.

“Once, on my adopted world, I heard an expression. I was told that 'good things often come in small packages'. Your size makes you uniquely suited to the challenge ahead, Sunrunner. Remember, also, that it has the power to surprise.”

There was a dizzying rush of sensation, and Sunrunner found himself inside his body once more. Except his body was changing... reformatting.

The launcher on his back filled with new warheads. Instinctively, he knew the payloads were of a pacifistic nature – sonic disruptors, adhesives, freezing compounds and neural chaff. The circle in the centre of his cockpit glowed a brilliant, pure cyan. So too did the vents on either side of his chest. The interior of the crest on his helm changed from steel to blue crystal; he thought he could hear it humming beautifully. Tiny, intricate symbols – identical to the Templar markings that criss-crossed the Matrix holder – etched themselves into his metalwork.

All at once, he understood. The artifact, too big for his form, was downloading its contents into his chassis. Every inch of his frame was being encoded with the thoughts, memories, tactics and abilities of the Prime lineage. His processor was left untouched and so his thoughts were his own but, if he concentrated, he could hear Optimus Prime and the others talking softly. They whispered encouragement to him, assuring him they were there to help.

Sunrunner had been right all along – he was not destined to carry the Creation Matrix. His doubts had been proven true. Because, unlike any Prime before him, it was Sunrunner's fate to _become_ the Creation Matrix.

And he was not done yet.

He let go of the Matrix holder, now empty, and let it clatter to the floor. Sunrunner raised his hands to his temples. At his silent command, the crystal in his forehead slid back, revealing a pathway to the full glory of the Matrix. The “tattoos” across his body glowed, as did the circle and vents in his chest, as the new Prime committed himself fully to his first act: evolving his inner circle.

Gentle beams of cyan light washed over Phaser, Blast Master and Overload. The Micros gaped, wide-opticed. Two more shafts bent, impossibly, in mid-air and headed back out the tunnel.

The Astros clung to one another – just as Sunrunner expected. To them, his shining examples of team work, he bequeathed a weapon usable only so long as they were together. For too many centuries, the null ray had been used to bring down and torture unfortunate Autobots. Placed now into the hands of the scientists, it would once again be used as intended – as a weapon that _stopped_ warfare.

Overload, frozen in a spotlight all his own, briefly touched minds with Sunrunner. It was exactly what the new Prime wanted; his tactician now possessed limited mind-reading abilities, as well as a telepathic connection to Sunrunner and the rest of his advisors. Already a great team, they would now truly be one on the battlefield.

Sunrunner sealed the Matrix once more and dropped to the ground. The others rushed up to him, and he wrapped them up in an enthusiastic bear hug. Phaser shrieked while the mechs grunted; Sunrunner hurriedly let them go.

“Oops,” he said sheepishly. “Strength of the Prime. Who knew?”

Blast Master was staring at his hands. “I have a new set of sub-routines,” he whispered happily.

“What, you think I was going to drag you all this way and not hand out consolation prizes?” Sunrunner joked. “If I'm going to do this, then I'm doing it with you guys... as a team.”

“Spoken like a true Prime,” Overload cheered. He paused. “Tailspin and Blaze,” he said, distracted. “They're in trouble. And, somehow... I _know_ they're in trouble.”

“I'll explain it on the way,” Sunrunner said. He sprang into the air and transformed – something he couldn't do, before, without a running start. “Autobots, transform and roll out!”

\-----

Tailspin dodged another barrage from Devastator's rifle... and was hit by a bolt from the blue.

The energy wave flooded his systems. He could feel it writing new sub-routines, altering his structure at a cellular level. His thoughts turned to Devastator... to the Constructicons. How dare they revive the forbidden gestalt technology! That sort of super-warrior would consume incredible amounts of Energon! They were gambling with the very life of the planet just to up their standing within the Decepticons!

Rage filled his frame... then spilled out of it. The crimson flames formed at the base of his feet, then enveloped his entire superstructure. A literal manifestation of his righteous anger... a tangible “warrior's spirit”... not only empowered him, it cleansed him of his injuries. His shuriken dispenser came back online; nanites fell from his body like char-broiled mechanical fleas.

He saw a second bolt of light zoom toward Blaze. The chaos worshipper growled at it. The beam tapped him lightly on the head and retreated back into the mountain.

“Okay, fine,” said a familiar – and very welcome – voice. “Who'd want to give Unicron's towel boy any more power, anyway?”

Overload led the reinforcements. His jet pumped laser fire at Devastator, driving the beast back. Phaser and Blast Master came next; holding hands, they sent cascades of pink energy into the Constructicon combiner. It struck the giant's limbs and they ground to a halt, their systems obviously shorting out. It was a null ray, Tailspin realised, but of a potency he'd never known. Then came Sunrunner... at least, Tailspin _thought_ it was Sunrunner. Covered in ornate glyphs, the lethal-looking aircraft circled Devastator's head and peppered it with freeze bombs.

“Gestalt? No problem,” Sunrunner said. It took Tailspin a moment to realise he was hearing his leader's voice in his head. “I have it on good authority there's a major design flaw in these big lugs: you've got six-or-so minds in competition with one another. And by gosh, there's six of us!” His tone grew serious. “Everyone pick a limb and go to town – it won't be long, after that.”

Tailspin filled his hands with shuriken and let them fly, peppering Long Haul's tray with crimson blades. Overload worked on Bonecrusher while Sunrunner dive-bombed Buckethead, using sonic disruptors to mess with the giant's perceptions. Phaser and Blast Master combined their powers and split their attention, ensuring Hightower, Scavenger and the immense rifle stayed out of commission. Blaze, now possessed of three of his four rotors, carved dagger-like shards of manganese out of the mountain and hurled them at Devastator's left knee, looking to sever Quickmix's connection to the others.

The Racer knew it all – every move, every strategy – before it happened. He was able to time each of his attacks to coincide with another's, and to dodge attacks _they_ saw coming toward _him_. They were all connected, he realised, processor-to-processor. They fought as one.

“Blasted Autobots,” Devastator roared. “Stand still and fight us!”

“That's just what we're doing, you dullard,” Overload said dryly. “We're fighting each of you, and you've no idea how to counter that.”

Devastator looked panicked. “Stop that,” it pleaded in Scavenger's voice. “You'll ruin everything,” Hightower protested. “Just concentrate and work as a team,” Buckethead ordered. “Easy enough for you to say, safe and snug up there in the chest,” Long Haul muttered. “I hate you all,” Bonecrusher said. Quickmix just laughed manically.

Sunrunner was right – it didn't take long. Devastator looked like it wanted to move in every direction at once. Quickmix was too eager to slag Blaze, and so the giant's left foot came free of the mountain. The beast lost its hand-hold, too, when Hightower focused his enmity upon Blast Master. Devastator began to slide down the sheer manganese surface. It coupling pieces could not withstand the strain of competing minds, and the first Transformer gestalt in nine million years fell victim to the same maladies that had felled its predecessors.

As it fell, Devastator broke into its component mechs. Sunrunner didn't wait; his missile racks targeted and snap-froze the jet components before they could reassemble. Unable to fly on their own, the six Constructicons vanished into the depths of the Manganese Mountains. Their last, profane words were drowned out by the wind.

Tailspin exhaled; the red haze faded away. He sank to his knees, exhausted but happy. Judging by the extra-mechanical power he'd exhibited... by the fact he could hear Sunrunner and the others in his head... by the way their leader had bulked up... their quest had been a success.

The Autobots gathered on the outcrop, hugging and talking over one another. Tales were swapped, amazement was shared, and many a shocked optic was cast over Sunrunner. The former Battler was, every inch, the power and majesty one expected of a Prime.

He gestured for them all to calm down. “We kicked aft today,” he began, proving that some things hadn't changed, “and we did it as a team. I figure we've got _some_ chance, now, of surviving this craziness. Provided you all let me lean on you. We've got a big job to do, and I'm not talking about ending the war or saving the Transformers race from extinction. Before we do any of that... we have to convince the Autobots we haven't gone nuts. Who's with me?”

Blaze smiled and bowed. Tailspin stood back up and placed one hand on Sunrunner's shoulder. “My life for the Prime,” he vowed.

Phaser, Blast Master and Overload and Blaze copied his gesture. “My life for the Prime,” they said in unison. “The Prime of the Micromasters!”

\-----

Skystalker re-read Buckethead's report. The Constructicons had survived their fall, Devastator had proven to be something of a success and the Autobots... the Autobots had escaped.

He could scarcely be happier.

It was incredibly satisfying to watch his byzantine, centuries-old plot come to fruition... albeit in an altered state. Assassinating an Autobot leader had not given him the Matrix as he'd wanted, but it _had_ sent a neophyte on a holy quest to retrieve the precious artifact. Now it was out in the open, it was but a matter of time before Skystalker claimed his prize.

He settled comfortably into his second throne – the one in his private quarters. The room... more of a luxury cockpit... was lit by the soft, pink glow of Energon cubes. He had thousands stacked up in here; his personal rations. He'd known, back when he incited the Second Great War, that millions would starve to death as a result. At no stage had he been prepared to join them.

Skystalker was too clever for that. He always had been.

He affectionately patted a wall. His troops had wondered aloud about the name he'd chosen for his star cruiser – which, in its alt-mode, formed the Decepticon command centre. He'd explained the name had belonged to a “great warrior” of the past, and they'd accepted it.

“Oh, if only they knew the truth,” he laughed.

Millions of years ago, the first Decepticon army had shrunk him down – ripped out his Spark and placed it in this ridiculously small body – as a punishment. Tired of his constant insubordination, it was thought the living prison would reign in his rebellious tendencies, teach him some “much-needed humility”, encourage him to work as part of a team.

The fools!

They had stolen his ability to fly and consigned him to a wretched, land-crawling, four-wheeled chassis. Even his name was punitive; a verbal torment chosen to constantly remind him of all he'd lost. It had instead inspired him, driven him to find other ways to achieve his goals. All they had done was ensure he would survive the circumstances that wiped them out. Their so-called punishment was among the greatest boons ever granted to him. Thanks to their short-sightedness, he had that for which he'd always lusted: undisputed leadership of the Decepticon Empire!

No situation, in all the universe, was so bad that one could not benefit from it. Skystalker was living proof of the lesson that _Starscream_ had learned so many, many centuries before.


End file.
